


Conquered

by StarsHideYourFires



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, period typical religious attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7900468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsHideYourFires/pseuds/StarsHideYourFires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the Battle of Hastings and King William's ascent to the English throne, Sir Derek Hale is granted an earldom. And that earldom happens to still be home to the former earl's omega son, Stiles. Both of their lives are changed by a bargain made for the good of all, but will it be good for them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquered

**Author's Note:**

> I have probably been working on this piece for far too long, and I'm sure there are still typos, but a couple of quick notes on this particular Medieval A/B/O AU:
> 
> Familiar titles are always (except son and daughter) given in relation to alpha/omega status before being given to gender. 
> 
> Alphas are also always given what we would see as male titles and honorifics (ex: Lord, Sir). Omegas are less stringently attached to this, but the proper term for a high-born omega male is "lordling," even in adulthood.
> 
> I attempted to properly use "you" and "thou" throughout in order to inform on relationships. "You" is formal and plural, "thou" is informal and singular. Use of thou forms denotes either a difference in class or a particularly close/intimate relationship between speaker and listener.
> 
> There are going to be ton of historical inaccuracies, even though I did a whole lot of research. But artistic license exists for a reason.

**Before**

 

“Why can’t the Normans stay in Normandy?” Stiles moans, throwing himself down on his father’s large feather bed. “And why must you go? The people here need you more than the king does.”

“I wish I could stay here with thee, but the Normans are many and my experience in battle will do much good for our people. And King Harold was gracious to keep us in our position and title. He could have granted these lands to another of more advantage to himself but he did not. I owe him my allegiance and I will fight for him,” Lord John says as he looks over his pack before going to his desk to continue writing instructions for the running of the household while he is gone. Stiles is only sixteen, already an omega grown in his own right, but still young and inexperienced. Perhaps he has been too much sheltered, but after losing Lady Claudia so many years before, Sir John cannot bear to deny his only child anything. “Swear to me that thou wilt not be sad whilst I am away. There will be plenty to occupy thy hours other than worrying over me.”

“Oh, Da, I promise, I do… But promise me thou wilt be careful so I need not worry so.” Stiles gets up and throws his arms around his father’s neck, leaning against his broad shoulders as he continues to write. Breathing in the scent of _alpha_ and _father_ that has always offered comfort and protection calms Stiles and he does not want to move. He has jostled a few blots of ink from his father’s quill onto the page, but none of the words have been obscured so Lord John ignores them.

“I will my dear one.”

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

The battle that has raged these many hours begins to dull at the edges. Still, it has been a day of blood, and the carcasses of horse and men litter the field. Sir Derek is exhausted; even as a member of the cavalry he has been fighting since dawn and night will soon fall over the field. To the south he hears a great din, shouts and even a few cheers. He glances that way and marvels as the English retreat, droves of men running from the field. In the shouts he picks out only a few words, but it sounds as though King Harold is dead and the Anglo-Saxon people leaderless. The Normans have won the day, and Duke William is victorious.

_The king is dead; Long Live the King!_

A choking sound to his right draws Sir Derek’s attention away from the cacophony of his countrymen’s celebrations. Dismounting, he leads his horse towards the noise. Under the shade of a tree he finds a man still breathing, an arrow in his thigh and blood pooling over a wound in his belly. He does not recognize the armor of the man, but it is well-made, and his tabard is embroidered with silk thread. Speaking no English, Derek chances that the man is high enough born and asks, “Who are you?” in Latin, adding a soft, “May I assist?”

“I am Lord Anglia,” the man answers in wheezing Latin, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he gazes upwards. Even with the expensive garments, Derek is taken aback by the man’s rank. The loss of an earl will do much to finish the last of the English resistance to the Normans, but such a death feels wasteful.

“Let me ease your suffering,” Derek soothes, returning to his horse and retrieving his wineskin. Undoing the stopper he dribbles the dark liquid into the earl’s mouth, watching as he swallows. When Anglia refuses more drink, Derek carefully probes around the wound in the man’s stomach, and to his credit the earl does not cry out, but merely hisses through his teeth. “I am sorry, my friend. I wish I could do more.”

“Please, stay,” the Earl moans. “It is cold, and I have broken my promise.”

“What promise? To your king?” Derek asks, part of him hoping for useful information but mostly wishing to sate his curiosity.

With shaking hands, Anglia fights to remove his glove, the thick leather too difficult for his clumsy hands to maneuver so Derek helps him. Hands free, he slides a ring from his finger and whispers, “He must know I am sorry. Tell my child I am sorry.” He holds the signet ring out to Derek who takes it gingerly, giving the three crowns on its face little more than a cursory glance. The earl mumbles again, now in the rough Saxon tongue, and his last words come out as little more than a whisper. Finally his shallow breaths cease altogether.

Derek crosses himself and takes off his own right glove, slipping the ring onto a free finger before replacing the glove, mounting his horse, and riding off to find his men.

 

**One**

In the winter, after the crowning of King William, Sir Derek and the other knights of the court await the king’s arrival. There has already been much talk of any the new titles he may intend to grant them following the service they have done during the conquest of England. William arrives to pomp and splendor, and makes his proclamations, the words droning on and on as he has so many shires to fill with men loyal to himself, including several that have stood vacant these many months since the bloodshed. Towards the end the king reaches the words that matter most to Derek. “…For his service to Us, and for reporting unto Us the death of the Earl of East Anglia, We grant Sir Derek of House Hale with the Earldom of East Anglia.”

Derek feels his heart stop. He knows the lands of the earldom have been reduced, but nowhere near as much as in Wessex and Sussex. More than anything, he is surprised to be suddenly raised so high in rank. But he is glad that it will allow him to find the son of the former earl, if he has not already been driven from his lands, and give up the ring entrusted to him. Bowing his head he says a soft, “Thank you, my liege.”

“Go, as soon as possible, and look to governing the people. Make sure they will be loyal to their new king.”

“Yes, my liege.”

 

**Two**

 

“Please, milord, you have to come out of your room,” Erica calls through the heavy wooden door to Stiles’s chamber. “Your people need you, and it is what your father would have wanted.”

“Go away!” The tell-tale sobs of the early days following the arrival of the anonymous letter filled with news of and condolences over the earl’s death at Hastings have subsided, but Stiles continues to hide from the world. He was fortunate that the remaining men retrieved his father’s body unmolested and returned him home. Now Sir John lies interred beneath the chapel with his forebearers.

“Stiles, you cannot stay in there forever. Please, come out.” Erica pounds on the door, then presses her ear to the wood to listen for footsteps. Instead she hears muffled gasps and a soft thud. “Milord! Stiles!” Erica tries to force the door, but it is locked and she no longer has the spare key.

Erica turns and runs, sprinting down the halls, nearly tripping down a back stairwell to the kitchens and out into the courtyard. There are too many people and her eyes cannot find the dark head she seeks, so she screams. All movement stops and dozens of eyes train on her. “What is the matter?” a gentle voice asks to which Erica replies, “I am in need of Scott the game warden. Does anyone know where he is?”

Scott emerges from the crowd, no trace of his usual crooked grin as he strides towards her. “What’s happened?” he asks, concern painted across his features.

“Stiles will not come out of his room, and I fear he is having one of his fits. I thought thee most likely to help in calming him.”

“By the saints,” Scott mutters as he takes off with Erica close behind. When they reach Stiles’s chamber door, the harsh gasps and choking sobs of the omega lordling’s fits continue to seep into the corridor. “Stiles,” Scott says, crouched down to put his mouth level with the keyhole, “I need you to count with me. Please, just count your breaths. One.” He waits, hears a shaky breath and a shakier echo of the number before he continues. “Two… Three… Four…” By the time they reach twenty Stiles has calmed enough to stand and unlock the door, but he does not open it, instead sinking down to kneel beside his bed. Scott and Erica find him there, hands clasped over his ears. Sitting back on their heels at either side of him, they wait.

The seconds stretch and Stiles eventually lowers him arms, wiping at the tearstains on his cheeks. “I am sorry for causing thee distress. Erica, I will have thy key to my chambers returned to thee. I have been acting as a child when I am no longer a child. My father would be shamed.”

“Your father loved you more than all the world, milord,” Erica whispers with a shake of her head. “Your grief does not shame him. But, I do believe he would worry for your health. You should not be shut away with these dark thoughts.”

“And the people would love to see you,” Scott adds. “They too have mourned the loss of the earl, and to see you about would do them good.”

Stiles nods and rises on unsteady feet. Scott supports his elbow, and Erica takes his hand. Together, they leave the dark chamber and Stiles steels himself in order to greet the outside world for the first time in nearly a month.

 

**Three**

 

The journey to the heart of East Anglia takes Derek several days. Traveling with his knights and pages—along with all his possessions—slows the journey considerably. But finally they reach the Earl’s Keep, and the vanguard stands just outside its gates. Not unexpectedly, the gates are closed.

They knock, Derek’s former squire, Sir Isaac, pounding his fist against the heavy wooden gate. A harsh voice calls out, but none of the Normans speak English.

“I am sure he is simply asking that we identify ourselves, sir,” Isaac says, keeping his voice unnecessarily low as it is unlikely any of the English speak their tongue.

“Agreed,” Derek answers before calling out in Latin, “I am called Sir Derek. I have been sent here by the king.” He waits for a reply, but hears nothing beyond muttering and harsh whispering coming from inside the keep’s walls. He adds, “We only request entry. There is no ill will between us.”

Minutes that stretch into centuries pass before a deep voice asks in fluid Latin, “Hail fellows? Who is out there?”

“God be praised,” Derek says under his breath, thankful that the gatekeeper recognized the Latin well enough to fetch a speaker. “My name is Sir Derek, of House Hale,” he calls again. “I have been sent here by King William and I ask that myself and my men be granted access to the city.”

“I am sorry, sir,” the voice answers, “But the gates were ordered shut by the earl before he left to fight, and gave the command that they should only be opened to shelter citizens or upon the orders of one of his household.”

“Is there no one you could fetch who could give such and order?”

“I do not believe it likely that he would acquiesce to your request.”

“Then I shall have to demand entry.” The words come out as more growl than speech, and heat roars through Derek’s veins.

“Even if I wanted to let you in, sir, I could not, for I do not have the key, and those that do are loyal to Lord Stiles.”

“Then fetch the lordling so I may speak with him!”

“Milord, calm thyself,” Isaac says in a hushed whisper, the harsh scent of enraged alpha clear even to his beta senses.

“Watch thy tongue, Isaac,” Derek snaps in Norman French at the impertinence of his familiarity. Still, he takes a deep breath and asks, “Please, bring whoever has the ability to have the gates opened.”

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

A messenger arrives at the manor out of breath, asking for the Lord Stiles. The poor servant boy who answers the door seeks Stiles out in his chamber. Concern filling his heart Stiles goes to speak with the messenger. Erica dutifully trails behind him. “M’lord, there is a Norman man at the gates, and he wants to enter the city. Father Vernon speaks with him now, but he wishes to converse with you,” the young messenger says, giving an awkward bow in his presence.

Stiles steels himself against the panic that threatens to overwhelm him at the thought of Normans, the people who stole his father from him, coming into his home. He straightens his spine and reaches into the purse at his side, pulling forth a silver penny and handing it to the boy. “I thank thee for thy pains,” he says, striding past the boy with his head held high.

It does not take long to reach the gates, the manor courtyard leading straight to them. Once there Stiles hears angry Latin from the other side, “I must be allowed to enter! If you do not open these gates the king will—”

“He is no king of ours,” Stiles shouts, just as angry as he cuts the Norman voice off. “We have sworn no fealty to the Duke.”

“You would be wise not to repeat such words, lordling,” the voice counters. “Am I correct in assuming that I am now speaking to the Lord Stiles? You are the omega son of the old earl, are you not?”

“You are correct, the earl was my father.”

The voice softens. “And his men were able to retrieve his body? I do not believe the king had any of the nobles taken from the battlefield the way he did with Harold, but he did not wish us to grant them Christian burial. For that I am sorry.”

“You are the man who sent me the message.” The message that spoke kindly of his father, that swore to see that no man bearing the earl’s body should be waylaid on their journey home. This man has been an angel to his eyes, but to know that he is a Norman knight with the favor of William the bastard turns Stiles’s stomach. His gratitude for the knight’s kindness outweighs the disgust he has for his people and Stiles orders, “Open the gates.”

 

**Four**

 

The words shock Derek. He expected to have to plead longer with the earl’s son, but only moments later the gate swings open revealing a small crowd of roughly clothed peasants and a lady standing beside her omega lordling. In respect for his position, Derek dismounts, handing the reins to Isaac as he signals that his men should follow suit. Stopping a few feet in front of the Lord Stiles, Derek drops to a knee and throws a proper flourish onto his bow as he introduces himself.

Stiles’s nostrils flare at the heavy scent of an unfamiliar alpha. It is both enticing and dangerous.

“Thank you, Sir Derek. Your note and deeds have allowed me much comfort in my grief.”

“If only I could have done more,” Derek says. “I wrote the message quickly, as soon as the battle was won, and I did not have time to tell you everything…” Here he pauses, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I did what modest little I could to comfort your father in his final moments. He asked me to tell you he was sorry for breaking his promise.” His voice catches and he coughs to clear it as he pulls his glove from his hand and tucks it into his belt. He takes a step forward and says, “He also asked me to ensure this was returned to you.”

Derek holds forth the signet ring that he has worn around his littlest finger for these past months, longing the entire time to return the damned thing. Stiles takes the ring with a trembling hand. “I thought it had been claimed by the king, to pass on to the new earl when he named one… Thank you for this, but it was not a family ring, just the seal of the title… I do not understand.”

“Perhaps he wished you to be his heir.” Derek continues to gaze at the dark-haired lordling, marveling at his thick lashes and the paleness of his complexion, waiting for him to glance up at him. Their eyes meet for a moment before Stiles blushes and looks away. “I do not mean to be forward,” Derek half-apologizes with a shrug, forcing himself to turn his gaze downward.

“I think you do,” Stiles says, looking up to meet his gaze again, waiting now for him to return it; this time a spark of defiance waits in his eyes along with a hint of playfulness.

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps I wish to enjoy the small time I have left before you regret opening the gate.”

What little warmth remaining in Stiles’s eyes disappears. He demands, “What do you mean? Explain, sir.”

“I have come to do more than return your father’s ring of office and tell you of my encounter with him. I spoke the truth when I said I was sent by the king; he has granted me the Earldom of East Anglia. I am to be your father’s successor.”

Fists clenched at her sides, Stiles turns from the Normans and his lady-in-waiting reaches out to comfort him. The blonde whispers something to her young master, preparing to lead him away from the source of his distress. Instead Stiles turns back, saying something before realizing that he has reverted to speaking the language of his people. Switching to Latin, the words come out jumbled, “I—you—this is—how can—no, this isn’t—my father—I have to go.”

He lets the signet ring fall from his fingers to settle in the dust of the road, before rushing off with his companion. The small group of Englishmen turns toward the Normans, anger and confusion on their faces. Derek holds a hand to caution his men and keep them from reacting with violence. He looks to the priest who first spoke with them and says, “Father, you have heard what I have spoken and you know that if the people revolt the king will not pause a moment before sending his soldiers to quell the rebellion. Chances are he would send someone far less understanding than myself.” Derek rests his hand on the hilt of his sword before adding, “I require your assistance in making this known to the people of the city.”

“Yes, milord,” Father Vernon answers with a bow.

“And let them know that I will do nothing to harm the Lord Stiles. He is welcome here as long as he likes.”

“Yes, milord.”

 

**Five**

 

The full realization that someone has come to claim his home and his father’s lands hits Stiles hard once Erica has returned them to the manor. This Norman knight, raised far above his station by the conqueror, will take everything Stiles knows for his own and leave his life worth next to nothing even as a noble-born omega. An unmarried omega with no family, connections, nor the skills to run a home or care for a family, Stiles only knows how to be the lord of a manor. He can manage servants and play the harp, embroider fine linen handkerchiefs and calm disputes between alphas and betas with a few well-placed words. How is he to survive now that his father is gone?

How is he to avoid being sold off to the highest bidder?

As Stiles sulks, Erica brushes through her master’s fine, dark hair. “I’ll not leave you, milord, I swear I shall not,” Erica says, her gentle touch a balm for Stiles’s frazzled mind.

“Thou art a true friend, Erica.” Stiles grips Erica’s hand, holding it to his shoulder. “But I cannot ask that of thee. Thou hast a chance here, the new earl will marry one day, and his omega will need care. Thy place is here, but mine is not.”

“Do not say such things, milord. The people love you as they loved your father; surely they will not let you fall to ruin.” She smooths the fabric of Stiles’s tunic, resetting the loose lines of the garment.

“It is too late. I am ruined already, and the inevitable has only been delayed by the time it took to crown a new king and for him to grant new titles of nobility. This day has been rushing towards me since my father was killed. I’m sure all the noble families who would have sheltered me out of love for my father have already been deposed, replaced by Normans. This is not my place any longer.” He stands and crosses to the wardrobe, rifling through his tunics and kirtles, and coming up with a simple, dark one made of coarse linen. Without a word, Erica rises to help him change, pulling the laces at the back of his kirtle to cinch the fabric around Stiles’s waist. Together they prepare Stiles for what he assumes will be a long journey, packing only the essentials, along with a few sentimental trinkets.

“What will you do?” Erica asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Where will you go?”

“I shall go to the monastery on the edge of the forest, ask the brothers to help me, and say that I wish to devote my life to God. I never thought the convent would be an option for me, but here it stands. Just think, I shall be able to pray for my father’s soul every day without worrying about how the crops have done or if disputes have arisen in the west. Perhaps it is a blessing.” He gives his lady-in-waiting a weak smile, holding in tears as he does.

“You will hate it,” Erica replies, holding back tears of her own. “This is the life you were meant to have.” She watches a lone tear roll down Stiles’s cheek and adds, “But I will help you if this is what you must do.”

Stiles does not answer. Instead, he throws his arms around Erica’s neck and kisses her brow. Erica returns the embrace but her heart is heavy at the prospect of losing her master.

“Come, we should go now before the Norman knight changes his mind and decides that he would be better off with you dead,” Erica whispers, taking Stiles’s hand and leading him quickly from the chamber, through servants’ passageways and down to the kitchens. They are waylaid there by the cook who has questions about the evening meal, and Stiles is doing his best to explain the current situation when Scott walks in to the kitchen.

“So this is where you got off to,” he says through his crooked smile. “The new earl has been asking to speak with you. At least, Father Vernon says that the tall, dark one is the new earl. He, the earl not the priest, although he has to do all the talking I suppose… He also asks that some repast be sent up for his men as they have been traveling long and are weary from the road.”

“I suppose I can throw something together,” the cook says, “How many are there to feed?”

“About thirty.”

“That makes it more difficult. And supper will be late, but what more can they expect?” She hums to herself as she goes back to ordering her staff around.

“Stiles, what is going on?” Scott asks. “Do you want me to make your excuses to the earl?” He pauses, finally seeing how she is dressed. “Why are you wearing your traveling cloak?”

“I’m leaving, Scott, of my own volition before I can be cast out. I still have some pride.”

“You were going to leave without telling me? Just sneak off without a word!”

Stiles goes to him, shushing him the way his mother would when he was fussy as a child. “It was the only way, especially if the earl is looking for me now,” he says, sliding his arms around Scott’s torso and clinging to him like he did when they were children and he was frightened of the noises beyond the keep’s walls at night. “I am sorry, Scott. I do not do it to hurt thee.”

He holds Stiles to him, very aware that scullery maids are staring, that such proximity between himself and the young master of the house has not been appropriate since he turned ten and had to take on more duties in the stables to earn his keep. But Scott cannot bring himself to care. “I shall miss thee, dearly,” he whispers in his ear.

“Thou art the best friend and brother I could have asked for,” Stiles returns. He takes a step back, and their arms fall to their sides. “God be with thee,” he says before turning, taking Erica’s hand, and sneaking out the kitchen door.

After all that, moving through the keep is easy. The people are all atwitter about the arrival of the king’s newly appointed earl and what that means for their lives. Stiles hears few questions of what will become of the old earl’s omega son, but the peasants are too focused on whether their new lord will be kind or cruel. If he will raise taxes, or if his stores shall be managed fairly. Stiles does not blame them. Their lives are harsh enough as it is and he prays that they will be well looked after by Sir Derek.

Slipping past the gates of the keep they continue down the right fork of the path and soon reach the asylum of the monastery. Knocking at the door it opens revealing a young monk with a fresh tonsure. “My l-lord,” he stammers, “May I be of assistance?”

“I seek sanctuary,” Stiles says. “I must speak with the prior.”

“Yes, let me bring you to him.” The monk steps back to let them inside. Stiles stops and turns to Erica.

“You should go back to the manor. Tell anyone who asks that I am unwell and resting in my chambers, that I do not wish to be disturbed. Please.”

“Yes, milord.” Erica squeezes Stiles’s hand, pale fingers cold against her sweaty palm. Then she rushes off without another word.

Stiles walks into the darkness of the monastery.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Erica is stopped outside the great hall on her way to Stiles’s chambers, a gruff Norman barking orders at her that she does not understand. She panics, backing against a wall and hoping he will lose interest in her when Scott appears at her side. “It’s alright. They’re stopping everyone with questions about Stiles,” he whispers.

“What good is that doing them? They cannot speak our language and we do not know theirs. Is Father Vernon still here?”

“Yes, and he will be forced to question thee as well. Just come quietly and speak quickly, then thou canst go about thy business.” Scott leads her by the elbow into the great hall, stopping in front of the long table where Sir Derek and his men sit, trays of food and flagons of mead before them.

Sir Derek asks a question in smooth Latin, and before Father Vernon begins translating Erica knows what he wishes to know. Still, she waits for the words, “Where is the Lord Stiles?” to come from his mouth.

“He is resting in his chamber. He did not feel well after the day’s excitement.” Father Vernon translates again. A smirk grows on Sir Derek’s face, more menacing than she expected, and Erica can feel her legs shaking. He says something else, soft but full of conviction.

“His chambers have already been searched,” Father Vernon says, worry sitting behind his dark eyes as he asks, “Where is he truly?”

“I do not know then,” Erica answers, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I went into the village to run an errand and he was asleep when I left.”

This time the space between the translation and the reply stretches. Sir Derek stands and paces, moving closer and closer to her with each pass, finally stopping little more than a foot away. He barks his words, directing them blatantly at Erica, but speaking clearly enough for the priest to hear.

Father Vernon’s voice is full of resignation as he says, “You will tell his lordship where Lord Stiles has gone. Lies will not be tolerated.”

“I will not betray my lord!”

The priest does not translate, instead speaking for himself. “Erica, it will be better for all involved if you tell him. He does not wish the lordling any harm. Sir Derek has no intention of turning him out.”

Her mind whirrs. Stiles could stay. Things would not have to change so much. They could be safe here until a better prospect turned up, which it surely would for a high-born omega of age. She would not have to be separated from her master, and Scott would not have to worry. They could stay together. At least if the Norman knight is to be trusted. For all his growling he does not seem one to lie…

But she made a promise. Stiles does not want to be found, and Erica does not wish to betray his trust. To break that trust… Erica looks over to Scott, sees his frown and pleading eyes. She makes her decision—Stiles has invoked his right to sanctuary in the monastery and if Sir Derek finds him there he cannot force him to do anything else. They can speak there, and then Stiles can make an informed decision.

“He has gone to the monastery,” Erica says. The earl does not wait for the translation, clearly understanding well enough. He calls orders for his men before pointing to Scott and saying something else. Brother Vernon translates for them, but Erica is too shaken to listen. She runs from the hall and no one attempts to stop her.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Derek follows the squirrely gamekeeper through the gates and down the path to the monastery, pushing him aside when they arrive and knocking fiercely on the heavy oaken doors. A young monk answers, but before he can speak Derek growls in Latin, “Where is Lord Stiles? Bring me to him.”

“He has come here seeking sanctuary, sir. He is speaking with my superior at the moment and perhaps—”

“I will speak with him. I have an offer I am certain he will wish to hear,” he says, the intensity of his words diminishing as he realizes he is shouting at a man of God.

“This way,” the monk says, opening the door wider. Derek follows, with Scott trailing behind him. They quickly reach a door and the monk knocks. A man answers it, with a serene smile. “Father Deucalion,” the monk squeaks, “This man seeks Lord Stiles.”

The Prior looks Derek over before asking, “Who are you, young man?”

“I am the new Earl of East Anglia.”

“Do you understand that the lordling is under my protection while he is under this roof?”

“Yes. I intend no harm to befall him. You have my word.”

“Then enter.” Father Deucalion steps aside, allowing him access to the chamber. Scott hangs back, just outside the door and ready to rush to Stiles’s aid should he require. For now he waits.

Striding in with purpose, Derek stops short when he sees Stiles. His eyes are red, his cheeks tearstained, but he holds his head high as he glares at him. He is beautiful, even in his fury and grief. “I know you have little reason to trust me,” Derek starts in halting Latin.

Stiles cuts him off, “Say what you think you must and go.”

“I did not ask to be given this title or this land. I was happy enough serving my king, living at court, but life does not always go as we plan. I am here now, and I can only do all I can to make this work. Originally, I intended to pay the dowry on any marriage contract you may have had, but I learned in my search for you that you do not have one. Instead I offer you this: be my wife. I do not know the ways of your people or of this place. This way, you can help to make the transition easy for everyone and you still may inherit what by rights should be yours.” As he speaks, Stiles’s face softens even as he continues to stare Derek down.

Stiles looks away, considering, before saying, “You would marry me, even though my father was your enemy?”

“Our kings were at odds. Your father was no more my enemy than you are. He was just a man on the losing side, and I am sorry for that. Now tell me, could you accept me as your husband and alpha? I shall not force you.”

“There is not some omega who will be pining for you back in Normandy?”

“No, I leave no omega behind me, beyond my sister, but she is long married and well cared for, so there shall be no pining. I do not make this offer lightly, my lord. I think it sensible, and clearly it is not reprehensible to you.”

Stiles swallows hard, the pale column of his throat contracting and entrancing Derek for a moment. “When?” he asks.

“We are already in a holy place, and the sooner we consecrate this union the better. Why not now?” Derek turns to Deucalion, “Father, can you marry us?”

“This is highly unusual,” he starts.

“I assure you, much will be unusual now that my people have come to your lands. We have a witness,” he gestures to Scott, “I do not see why we cannot get on with the ceremony.”

Deucalion nods. “Give me a moment to prepare. I will have Brother Athelstan take you to the chapel.”

The little monk is summoned again, leading them through the monastery, Scott supporting Stiles by the elbow as they walk, their footsteps syncing perfectly. Stiles refuses to look at Derek, keeping his gaze on the stone floor, nodding every so often at something Scott murmurs to him. Conversely, Derek watches Stiles’s every move, noting the mole at the base of his neck that matches the one on his cheek, the long fingers of his delicate hands, his narrow waist and gracefully rounded hips. Perhaps, under different circumstances they would have met as equals, dancing at feasts and trading tokens. He would have recited poetry to woo Stiles and gone to his father to draw up a marriage contract. A less tumultuous start in a more perfect world, but even now Derek does not regret his decision.

He can be a good husband to Stiles, even if there is no love between them. Nobles rarely have the luxury of marrying for love, and he shall be no exception.

Father Deucalion arrives, ready to perform the marriage rites. Derek takes a deep breath and holds his hand out to Stiles. After a moment’s hesitation, he takes it.

 

**Six**

 

The cook is furious when Scott informs her that she must turn supper into a marriage feast. She screeches and shouts about time constraints and food stores, but ultimately she turns out enough food to feed the household and the surrounding village.

At the feast, speeches are made and performers entertain. Stiles does his best to translate Derek’s words for his—now _their_ —people, assuring them that life in East Anglia will continue much as it had before, farmers will work the land and shepherds will tend their flocks, craftsmen will ply their trades and all will be well. Stiles blushes when he says how glad his lordship is to have been able to join his house to that of the old earl, but the people cheer.

The night wears long, the knights in attendance becoming increasing rowdy with drink. Unable to force any food into his stomach, Stiles is tipsy off less than a full flagon of mead. Every so often he giggles at the antics surrounding him, doing his best to ignore his new husband where he sits at his side without looking like he is ignoring him.

Suddenly, a cheer goes up through the crowd causing Stiles to glance about the room in order to discover the cause of the excitement. Only when he looks to his right does he see Derek standing, holding a hand out to him. Knowing so few in attendance will understand him, he speaks only for her to hear, “Milord, the hour grows late. Will you to bed?”

His tongue freezes, but Stiles takes Derek’s hand, allowing him to pull him to his feet. The cheering grows louder, and Derek plays to them, putting a hand to Stiles’s cheek and leaning in to kiss him. Much to his surprise, Derek blocks the audience’s view of the kiss, letting his lips just brush the corner of Stiles’s mouth before pulling back, a wolfish grin on his face; the cheering grows ever louder. Then, in claim of him, Derek bends down and scoops Stiles into his arms, nodding to the crowd and making his way down from the dais and out of the great hall.

Some of the more interested parties—servants who have known Stiles his whole life, Derek’s closest knights—follow them from the hall, but most everyone is too drunk to care. When Derek reaches the staircase Stiles mutters, “You can put me down. I can walk just fine on my own, by your leave.”

“It is tradition,” Derek counters with a sincere grin, as he starts up the staircase. “I intend to marry only once, and as such I’d like to do it right.”

“So this is to be your solitary attempt at a marriage, even if I should catch the plague and leave you after a year?” They both know such an outcome is possible, and that it is even more likely Stiles will die in childbirth. Omegas are fertile, but like all wives they most often die in the birthing bed.

Derek’s countenance turns stony. “I prefer not to contemplate such things.” Upon reaching the top of the staircase Derek turns to take them to the earl’s chambers. The door sits open and he carries Stiles over the threshold before setting him gently upon his feet.

Stiles looks up into his eyes, barely able to make out the soft green of them in the candlelight. His hand is still at Stiles’s waist, large and warm even through all the layers of his clothing. “I forgot to have Erica set out my things in here,” he whispers, taking a step back. “Excuse me, milord.”

He turns and rushes from the room, down the corridor, to his old chamber. There he finds Erica and his old Nurse, Mella, who is also Scott’s mother. Immediately he goes to embrace Mella who whispers, “Your mother and father would be proud of you. I am proud of you as well, my sweetling.”

“I am so afraid,” he whispers back.

Mella gives him a knowing smile and says, “You needn’t be. We talked of all this when you got your courses. You know of the pain at the first time, that it will not last. The earl seems a good man; he will not wish to put you through more pain that necessary. And when an alpha couples with an omega even the first time is often… easier than for beta women.” Stiles quakes in Mella’s arms, little comforted by the reminder of how his body will likely betray him.

“Come, let me help you, milord,” Erica says, a reassuring smile on her lips. She undoes Stiles’s laces and pulls off his kirtle, striping him expertly down to his shift and wrapping a thick, woolen shawl around his shoulders. This is followed by more embracing, and whispers of, “I don’t want to go back,” from Stiles followed by soothing from Mella and Erica as they lead him down the corridor to the earl’s chambers.

Stiles walks in, and Mella closes the door behind him. Derek sits on the edge of the bed, having taken the opportunity to strip down to his small clothes, his feet bare against the cold stone floor. Stiles takes a step forward, head swimming, when Derek looks up at the sound of the swinging hinges. Standing, Derek walks the rest of the way to his omega, stopping short so as not to crowd him. “I do not want you to fear me, and I will not take more than you offer beyond the duty I must perform tonight. We will need proof of the consummation in the morning, but I will not force myself upon you. Do you understand?”

Stiles nods, not trusting his mouth to speak. Slowly, he drops the shawl and shivers at the cold air on his skin; the fire in the room is not doing enough to heat it, or maybe he cannot feel its warmth in this state. Derek closes the gap between them, his warm hands pressed against Stiles upper arms as he lets him acclimate to his touch. Instinctually, Stiles leans in and rests his head against his alpha’s chest, letting himself feel safe, if only for a moment. Shifting in turn, Derek holds him close, hands settling along his spine. In that moment Stiles lets himself forget that he has married a foreign stranger and must now go to bed with him. For a moment he is simply being held by someone who cares for him, the warmth of the embrace familiar and comforting.

The reality of the situation hurtles to the forefront of him mind when the hand at his waist shifts, covering his bottom, and he gasps. The hand retreats back to its place and Derek whispers, “Sorry, I should have warned you… But touching cannot be avoided, my lordling.” He relaxes his grip and takes a step back, giving Stiles space to breathe. He shivers at the loss of Derek’s heat.

Biting his lip, Stiles closes his eyes and sends a short prayer to the Blessed Virgin; when he opens his eyes, Derek is watching him with such intensity that he feels even more naked than he is already. Derek holds a hand out to him and asks, “How much longer shall we delay the inevitable?”

Wishing he had drunk more at the feast, Stiles swallows against the dryness in his mouth and takes his hand.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Derek leads his young omega to their bed and lets him lie back on his own. He averts his eyes for a moment before lying beside him and covering them both with thick blankets. He slips an arm across Stiles’s waist, keeping him from scooting farther away, and then does nothing. Slowly Stiles relaxes, his breaths growing slow and even, Derek’s hand rising and falling with the steady movements of his belly. Worried Stiles has fallen asleep, he whispers, “Do you trust me?”

Stiles finally finds his voice, asking, “Do I have a choice?”

“Not much of one,” Derek answers, frustrated with the situation. He takes a deep breath before continuing, “Is there anything I can do now, in this moment, that will help you to trust me?”

Stiles mutters something under his breath in English that Derek cannot understand, the words full of hard consonants. When he does not elaborate or translate, Derek adds, “I genuinely want to know. Ask for anything that I can grant you from this room.”

“Why did you ask me to marry you?”

The question gives him pause. Derek searches for the words that will best calm his omega, but after several long moments he decides the truth is best. “You are beauteous and educated, high born and kind. Your servants love you and the people here loved your father. You strengthen my claim to this title and you will be a good helpmeet in running the earldom.” These are his logical answers, the sensible ones that drove him to make the offer, the ones he would give to any of his countrymen who ask about his English wife. But another reason springs forth and for the sake of complete honesty he adds, “Also, I had a sister who would have been about your age. You have the same fire in your eyes as she had. I would hope that were your places traded someone would have done the same for her, given her the future she deserved.”

“I thought your sister was married,” Stiles whispers.

“My elder sister is. My younger sister, she died many years ago…”

“I am sorry.”

“She was spirited, like you, at least around the family. In crowds she was quieter. I miss her still. Very much so.” Derek has to swallow back his emotions, not having thought about the loss of his family so much in so long that he hardly remembers how to ignore the tightness in his throat or the stinging of his eyes.

Stiles places a hand over his and says, “I trust you.”

“All right, then I am going to touch you more… intimately.” His hand bunches in the front of Stiles shift, tugging the fabric up little by little. He moves Stiles hand from his then and reaches down, pressing his fingers to the thatch of hair at the juncture of his thighs. A soft, distressed sound escapes Stiles’s throat and Derek soothes him with a soft _shhh, shhh_. Nudging his legs open he probes with a fingertip, finding his little omega prick. Stroking over it and rubbing along its length, he draws a startled moan from Stiles.

Soon, the omega’s leg twitches, and Derek dips his fingers lower to find his entrance growing wet, ready to welcome an alpha inside. He returns to his ministrations, listening as Stiles breathe, gentle breaths turning into soft pants, bringing him closer to the precipice. His hips stutter, seeking more friction, and Derek knows he is as ready as he can make him for the taking. Stopping his hand, he struggles out of his small clothes, casting them aside, before working his now slick hand over himself, bringing his cock to full hardness, and rolling Stiles onto his back. He moves so quickly Stiles barely has time to gasp.

Settling between his legs, Derek lines himself up with the entrance and pushes in, past the resistance of his virgin body, until he is seated all the way inside. Stiles releases a soft cry of pain, the sound going straight to Derek’s heart as he leans in close. He shushes him again and places a kiss to his neck. After Stiles sucks in a shaky breath Derek asks, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he answers, nodding. Derek takes him at his word and starts to move, pumping his hips in short strokes. Deciding it will be best to get this over as quickly as possible he keeps up his pace, movements soon becoming erratic until he climaxes, spilling inside him, his knot swelling to lock them together. Keeping his weight in his arms, Derek avoids collapsing on top of Stiles, instead holding him close and turning them upon their sides upon regaining his faculties.

“How long must we remain like this?” Stiles asks, voice tight.

“How long have you been told?” Derek asks in return. “I find most alphas exaggerate their prowess.” His body tenses, spilling again as Stiles tightens around him. A choked gasp escapes Derek’s throat. “That should happen once more, only a few minutes, and then the knot will release.”

“The whispers I always heard as a child said knotting could last for hours. My nurse said it wasn’t possible.”

“Your nurse was right. Knotting shouldn’t last more than a half of an hour, and then only during heats.” Derek strokes a hand down Stiles’s back. “It’s possible coupling could trigger yours, but if so, I will leave the manor to keep from breaking my promise to you.”

Stiles pauses, looking up at Derek with his large doe eyes. He has only suffered through one heat in his life, still not old enough or his cycle regular enough for the occurrence to come yearly. It had felt like the very fires of Hell flickered through his veins. “You’d truly do that for me?”

“I do not wish to break faith with you, not unless it was the only way to keep you safe.” Derek’s hips jerk as he spills a final time. He draws a shaky breath.

“Would it not be safest to be claimed by my alpha during a heat?” Stiles challenges softly.

“Safer, yes. But I would station beta guards outside your chamber, have sentries watch the windows, keep your lady to tend you. I would have it known that you are not to be touched.” The knot releases and Derek slips from between Stiles’s legs.

He shifts and sits back on his heels. Stiles has turned too, now laying back against the pillows. Derek looks at the spot just below his quim, seeing the spots of blood that already stain the back of his shirt. When he sees where his alpha is looking Stiles hurries to pull down the hem of his shift and pushes himself away from his lord husband, curling in on himself. He winces at the movement. Derek pulls his own shirt down to cover his thighs and moves so he sits to Stiles’s side, removing the discomfort of having to stare at one another as he leans over to extinguish the one candle he left burning at their bedside.

“Do you still feel the pain?” he asks softly.

Hugging his own torso Stiles says, “No, it is little more than a dull ache when I move.”

“Good,” he says with a nod. “You should rest.” He shifts toward the edge of the bed, giving him all the space he could need to feel comfortable and to move away from the small wet spot their coupling has created. Then he realizes that Stiles’s clothing traps the wetness against his skin anyway. “Do you want to change your nightclothes?”

“I did not bring anything else with me and I am not leaving this room until Erica comes and dresses me in the morning.”

“Surely, you could wear one of your father’s nightshirts. They are still in here, are they not?” Derek moves to stand, but Stiles stops him with a hand to the wrist.

“No, I had many of the plainer items given to the less fortunate after he was buried. I think some were used for bandages last month.”

“Then I insist you wear one of mine.” He escapes his grip and stands, stooping to retrieve his smalls and return the covering to his legs in the hopes Stiles will feel more comfortable. Then he pulls a spare shirt from a trunk and brings it to him, turning his back while Stiles changes.

“Thank you,” he says as he climbs back into their bed. Derek turns to look at him, only realizing now how worn the shirt he retrieved is, as he stares at the very visible outline of Stiles nipples raised in the chill of the drafty chamber. Joining him in the bed, he again keeps his distance as he draws the blankets up to their chins.

Lying on his back Derek tilts his head to glance at his wife, and he is greeted only with the back of Stiles’s head, his dark hair just visible above the covers. He sighs; the day has been long and sleep claims him easily.

 

**Seven**

 

Stiles wakes to unexpected warmth. The upper floor of the manor is drafty and chilled in the winter months, and even on the mornings when a maid kindles a fire early enough he wakes to cold air and oftentimes cold feet. A soft groan, one that vibrates through him, reminds him that he is not in his own chambers nor is he alone. Sometime in the night he and Derek have found their way into one another’s arms, and his head is pillowed on Derek’s shoulder. He attempts to extricate himself from his grasp but even in sleep his grip is strong.

Rather than struggling to move away, Stiles closes her eyes and pretends to doze. When Derek wakes himself not long after, he relaxes his hold on Stiles and mutters something in the Norman tongue that he cannot understand. Delicately shifting his body, Derek rests Stiles’s head against a pillow before slipping from the bed. Not daring to open his eyes, Stiles listens as Derek moves about the chamber, dressing for the day and washing his face in the basin, fresh water having been fetched by a servant well before they awoke. Derek leaves him, shutting the door behind him, and Stiles opens his eyes. He checks first to see if his discarded shift has been moved and is relieved to find it untouched—no scullery maid took it for a misguided cleaning, but neither has Sir Derek taken it as proof of first blood.

Climbing from the bed, he gathers the fabric in his hands, not wanting to look at the already dulled, rust-colored stains, and he folds it neatly before placing it at the foot of the bed. There he finds his shawl, also folded, and hurries to wrap it around his shoulders, even though it is his legs that feel the chill. The hinges of the door creak and Stiles barely manages to stifle a yelp, relieved when he sees that it is only Erica come to dress him.

Erica giggles when she sees him, standing there in an alpha’s shirt that swallows him whole, and asks, “Are you wearing one of the Earl’s shirts?”

“No,” Stiles answers immediately, his brain still assuming the title refers to his father. Glancing down he realizes his mistake. “I mean, yes.” He retrieves his ruined shift, bringing it to his lady-in-waiting. “No one ever said how messy coupling would be,” he mumbles as he hands it over.

Erica unfolds the shift, thinking she will have to decide how it should be cleaned when she sees the bloodstains and says, “I assume the Earl will be wanting this once you are ready for the day.”

“I assume so.”

Erica puts the shift aside and sets to getting Stiles ready, stripping him of the shirt and sending him to wash quickly in the basin. Stiles protests loudly that he does not deserve such rough treatment and Erica laughs, telling him he should not let being the wife of an earl go to his head. Dressing goes smoothly and Erica does Stiles’s hair simply, covering it with a headdress, signaling to the world that he is married now. “We shall have to begin bringing your things into this chamber today,” Erica mumbles, more to herself than to her lord.

At this, Stiles goes to the window, staring out at the dusting of snow over the grounds. “I never thought it would happen this way,” he whispers, “This was never supposed to be my place. I would have married a second son or some member of the King’s court who wanted land, and we would have lived here with Father. Then my son would have become Earl. That was how it was supposed to be.”

“Our plans mean nothing to the Holy Father’s, milord.”

“That brings little comfort, Erica.”

“I know Stiles, but it is all the comfort we have.” She takes Stiles’s hand into hers, patting it gently. “There is still the chance for happiness, milord, remember that.”

Stiles nods and sits at the foot of the bed. “If you would tell his lordship I am ready, Erica,” he says.

Erica curtsies and gives a soft, “Yes, milord,” before leaving him to seek Sir Derek. She is gone for hardly a minute when Derek appears in the doorway, as though he has been waiting nearby.

“Not at all,” he says when Stiles asks, “I was returning from breaking my fast on the chance you were ready, and so you are.” He takes the shift from its place on the bed beside him and offers Stiles his arm. He takes it and Derek helps him to his feet.

The journey down to the great hall twists Stiles’s stomach into knots and he drags his feet as though they were made of lead. Nearly all the guests from their wedding feast along with representatives from the abbey are gathered there, far more people than Stiles was expecting. They go through the ceremony of revealing the proof of his maidenhead upon the consummation of his marriage, followed by yet more cheering and a few lecherous calls from Derek’s men. He calms them with a hand, but it does little to stop Stiles’s skin from crawling.

From there, many decisions are made without consulting Stiles, men talking over his head and saying, “By your leave,” without really meaning any of it. Derek sends a pair of knights back to William’s court in order to find noble-born, Norman ladies to serve as Stiles’s ladies-in-waiting in order to teach him the ways of the new court and the language. Servants are sent to move Stiles’s things into the earl’s chambers. A tournament is planned for the first of May, both to add to the regular springtime festivities and to properly celebrate the marriage.

Stiles wants nothing more than to go and hide in the small apple orchard behind the manor. There, Scott would hold his hand and tell him that he would always be his dearest friend, and that he would never abandon him. But he knows he cannot. The world is not so nice, so he must listen as his future is decided by a man he hardly knows.

 

**Eight**

 

That night Derek stays away from his chambers until well after midnight. Stiles is already sleeping when Derek slips beneath the covers, doing his best not to disturb him. The movement rouses Stiles anyway and he whispers, “Where have you been?” The words come out more accusatory than he intends, but he does nothing to change the perception.

“Finding more permanent places for my knights in the barracks and ensuring that we have enough stable space and feed for the added horses,” he answers wearily.

“Oh… Were you wanting…?” He reaches out, hand tentatively settling on Derek’s chest.

He catches Stiles’s wrist and puts his hand back on his side of the bed. “I meant it when I said I would not take that which you did not wish to give me. Besides, I am too tired tonight.”  He turns to lie on his side, facing away from his wife.

“You are not like other knights.”

“There is more than one way to be a knight, and I have not always been one.”

“Then what were you before you were a knight?”

“The son of a good man. Now go to sleep, lordling. It is late and I am tired.” With that Derek closes his eyes and wills sleep to take him. Still his omega outpaces him and before he drifts off he is soothed by the sound of Stiles’s heavy, sleep-tinged breathing.

 

**Nine**

 

After a fortnight of awkwardly sharing a bed and occasionally waking to close physical contact Stiles feigns illness and retreats to sleep in his old chambers. Derek does not disturb him beyond summoning a midwife to examine him on the chance that their wedding night has resulted in a child. The woman declares it too early to tell and says she will return if the bleeding does not come for another two weeks, but she is not fetched; Stiles gets his courses two days later leaving him further reason to continue hiding from his husband.

On the day the bleeding stops Derek’s men return with a pair of Norman ladies. The red-head, Lydia, is the daughter of a baron and far better educated than most anyone Stiles has ever met. Alyss, a girl with dark hair and eyes, is the daughter of a wealthy knight who speaks only the Norman language.

Immediately, Lydia takes charge, having Stiles acquaint her with the manor and any duties she may have, Alyss following after her, silent but appraising of everything. “And you have only had one lady to attend upon you all this time?” Lydia asks, shocked.

“I only ever needed Erica. I was not the lordling of the manor, not officially, and my father thought it better if I were able to form a household after I married. We’ve done perfectly well, the two of us.” Stiles says defensively as he shows them his room in the Earl’s chambers, watching Lydia comb through his clothing.

“Perhaps well enough for the English countryside but not for the Norman court. You speak Latin very well, which is surprising and good. Has his lordship taught you any French?”

“He has not had the time.”

“Well, it is closer to Latin than your own tongue, so I feel you should pick it up quickly.” She glances around the room, saying something sharp to Alyss before asking, “Where are we to sleep?”

“Erica has not slept in the same room as me since I was thirteen when she moved to the ladies’ quarters. I will have the servants make up two more beds there.”

“Not to worry, I shall see to it,” Lydia says with a condescending smile.

“But none of the servants will be able to understand you… They all speak English. Erica only speaks English…”

“Then you shall have to teach me English as I teach you French. Alyss will learn, too.” Upon hearing her name Alyss nods solemnly. “See, we shall work this out.” She picks a silver brooch from one of the many jewelry boxes before her and goes to place it tenderly on Stiles’s chest, securing the pin with practiced fingers. “We shall go to your sitting room, and there I shall begin your first lesson.” She takes Stiles’s hand and pats it, leading him along and giving another order to Alyss.

“Can we fetch Erica first?” Stiles asks, “If we go to court, she will come too and she will want to be able to speak with the people there in order to fulfill her duties.”

“Yes, of course, milord, just as you say.”

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

That night, at supper together for the first time in over a week, Stiles greets Derek with a simple, “Good evening, husband,” in his own language. The words are clear, if a bit slow and over enunciated, and they stop Derek in the doorway. He stares at Stiles where he stands behind his chair, waiting for him before sitting. Stiles stares back, his large brown eyes studying him. “I no have much words now,” he says, continuing in French, not as practiced, but still a marvel after only one day with proper instruction.

“Very good,” Derek answers in French as he enters the room before switching to Latin. “I am quite impressed with the Lady Lydia’s speed of instruction. Or are you a quick study?” He flashes a soft smile his way as he pulls back his own chair, motioning that Stiles should do the same. They sit in unison, and Derek asks, “What else did she teach you?”

“Counting, the names of the beasts of the field, some simple phrases, nothing very important yet. We would have gotten further, but she wants to learn English, so I taught her the same words,” Stiles says, a delicate blush sitting on her cheeks.

“You are a marvel, lordling,” Derek says, awe clearly coloring his voice. A secret smile crosses his face and he says, “I have been learning, too,” this time shocking Stiles at his grasp of English. His words are more heavily accented than Stiles’s, lacking the strength of his hard H, his Ts not quite as pointed. He is sheepish as he switches back to Latin, “I cannot rely on translators all the time so Father Vernon has been teaching me. I wished it to be a surprise, but now perhaps we can help one another.”

Stiles looks at him expectantly. When Derek does not continue, he prompts with a soft, “Yes?”

Derek catches himself, lost staring into his eyes past the thick, dark fringe of his lashes. He squeezes his eyes shut and chuckles, “Yes, sorry… We could practice together. I wish to get to know you better and I wish to learn your language. Hopefully, you also wish to know me better. Every night, at supper or after, we could ask questions, about anything, and the other will answer. After we have a better grasp of the languages, you may question me in French and I will ask in English. That way you may answer in your own tongue and me in mine. Better answers, more new words to learn. What do you say?”

“I would like that… Perhaps we could start with questions tonight, even without the practice of languages?”

“Please,” he says with a nod.

Stiles purses his lips, gaze firmly upon his food instead of his husband as he asks, “You said you were not always a knight; what were you before?”

“You need not wait so long to ask questions like this,” Derek says, remembering that night several weeks ago and feeling ashamed that his wife does not feel that he can initiate a conversation with him. “We will always have our evening practices if you wish, but you are welcome to speak to me when it pleases you as long as it does not interfere with my duties.” Stiles looks up at him then but does not speak, merely giving a short nod of his head.

Derek continues, “My father was a baron, and our lands shared a border with those of a baron serving a different king. One night, when I was about your age, I was hanging around the stables because one of the mares was foaling. My father had promised me the foal when it was born and I wanted to be there when it happened. So I was out of the manor when the attack came, I don’t much know what happened, but everything that was not looted was set ablaze.” He stops, not having had to tell this story for many years as anyone who wanted to know it already did.

He clears his throat and swallows hard. “We heard it from the stables, the start of the raid, the screams of the servant as they were killed, the exits being blocked to prevent anyone from escaping. It was just me and one of our stable boys out there, but I assumed the raiders would come to take the horses after they finished at the manor so we could not hide. We took the fastest horses we had and rode west, not daring to look back until we were sure no one had followed us. It took days, living off the land and letting our horses get enough rest so as not to leave them exhausted, for us to reach Duke William’s lands. He gave us shelter, and started me as a squire, made Isaac a page, and here we are.”

Stiles places his hand on top of Derek’s fist. “I am so sorry. To lose so much so quickly, it is difficult.” Derek closes his eyes at the gentle touch, frowning when Stiles pulls his hand back. “So you have known Sir Isaac a very long time, then.” He thinks of the curly-haired knight who jokes the loudest with his commander, the one with eyes so blue they remind him of clear summer skies.

“Yes, he is a good man who lost everything long before I did. His parents fell to illness one winter and my father gave him a place to live and work to do,” Derek says, his eyes sad as he watches Stiles pick at his food. “I am lucky to have so loyal a friend when I have so little family left, just as you are lucky to have Erica… and Scott.”

“And you do not think it unbecoming for an omega of my station to be friends with the game warden of the estate?” Stiles is coy, with only the subtlest hint of confrontation lying beneath his words.

“Children are friends with whatever children they have available to them, and usually the children of nobles play with the children of servants. Either way, Scott has acquitted himself well, earning a position of importance. I’ve never seen a man so gentle with a horse or hawk before either.”

Here, Stiles animates, grinning as he says, “He has been giving Hild extra attention whenever he can so she does not get lonely. My father loved that bird and she loved him… I think she knows something is wrong, that father is not coming back this time. Are you a hawker, sir?”

“I would sometimes take out one of Duke William’s tiercels, but I never had a bird of my own. And you, lordling? Did your father share his passions with you in this regard?”

“He gave me my first merlin when I was twelve, but he would bring me out with him before that. Eda and I do not catch much, but it is wondrous to watch her fly.” Stiles leans in close, “There are plenty of birds in the mews, if you ever want to take one out.”

Derek matches him, his head only a few inches from Stiles’s as he says, “That would please me greatly, especially if you were to join me.” He adjusts his hand so Stiles’s rests on top of his, palm to palm.

“That… would be nice…” His blush returns, now spreading to the tips of his ears. A servant arrives and Stiles retreats, leaning back into his own space and returning his attention to his food as the boy refills their goblets. “Do you have any other business to attend to tonight, sir?” he asks his husband, regaining his composure.

“I’ve actually finished everything for the day. The logistics of making sure everyone is properly fed through to next harvest have been difficult. We have had to refigure many things due to the losses from the battle, disproportionate gains of my men, and the displaced peasants from the south whom you granted sanctuary.”

“I am sorry if they are straining our stores too much, but I could not have turned them away,” Stiles blurts.

“Nor would I have wished you to; it is my duty as earl to care for those who seek my aid and who wish to work my lands. It was a great deal to tend to, but I think we have it figured out now, so I will have more leisure time in the coming days.”

“You’ll finally have time to train with your men, then.” Stiles has often seen the knights drilling and sparring in the yard, but never Derek.

He nods. “And time to devote to learning English.”

“You truly are devoted to learning.” Stiles has a cheeky smile on his face, but his tone betrays his sincerity.

“There is no greater pursuit than improving the mind other than improving the soul. My body was graced with the ability to fight, but I will not ignore other pursuits because of it.” A servant returns then, asking Stiles if they are done and he allows the boy to take away their empty trenchers. Derek watches the conversation raptly, and when the servant leaves he says, “And it frustrates me that I cannot answer my own servants. I cannot give orders to half my knights outside the most basic instructions. Also, I do not think it fair that you should learn my language if I am not to learn yours. Our marriage was meant to form an alliance, but… I hope we may still have the chance at something more.” He stares directly into Stiles’s eyes and smiles, offering him his hand as he stands.

Taking his hand, Stiles follows him, not sure how to respond to all he has just said. Derek leads him up to their chambers and says, “What else do you wish to know?”

 

**Ten**

 

Derek wakes to the sound of screaming, only to be surprised that he was not disturbed by Stiles thrashing at his side. He just manages to stop one of his hands from hitting him across the face when a sentry bursts through the door to investigate the noise. “Fetch Lady Erica,” Derek barks, first in French before realizing that the man is English and repeating the phrase, little changed, but enough to send him running down the corridor.

Turning his attention back to his wife, Derek puts a hand to his shoulder and says, “Stiles, what can I do?” He does not respond, his eyes unseeing as he continues to cry out, still trapped inside whatever terrors pervade his dreams tonight. Not knowing what else to do, he shakes his shoulders and half shouts in order to speak over his cries, “Stiles, wake up. Wake up, you are safe here. Please wake up.”

His eyes focus and Stiles stares at him, mouth agape as he woke halfway through a scream. His breathing becomes more ragged and he curls in on himself, turning his back to him. He mumbles something over and over again that Derek cannot make out. When he tentatively puts a hand on his back Stiles shrinks away from his touch.

Fortunately, the sentry returns then with Erica who rushes to her lord’s side saying soft, sweet things in English before starting in with words that Derek understands, “ _an, twa,_ _þreo, feowor, fif, six, seofon, eahta, nigon, tyn…_ ” pausing to breathe in and out between each number up to twenty. Stiles slowly regains his composure as he counts along with Erica, relaxing enough to mumble his thanks and send her back to bed. Erica protests, but a calm word from Stiles sends her on her way.

Derek slowly reaches out and touches Stiles’s shoulder again, and this time he does not shake him off. “Forgive me, my lord,” he whispers, not turning to face him, “I am sorry to have disturbed your slumber. I do not know what came over me.” Stiles trembles and Derek can hear him sniffing back tears.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Derek says gently. “And from Erica’s reaction this has happened before. Is there nothing I can do to help?”

Stiles turns to face him, and Derek can barely make out the shape of his features in the dark of their chambers, but he reaches for his cheek and wipes away the tears he finds there. Stiles puts a soft hand over his and holds it close before moving it down to the bed. “I was plagued with nightmares when my mother died, and sometimes the terror I felt would not stop when I awoke. Later, I would be struck with fear without reason, but my nurse was always able to bring me out of my fits. I have not been affected by them as much these past few years, and Erica is an expert at bringing me out of them.” Softly he begins to weep. “I had hoped they had stopped.”

“Until they do, I will be right here,” Derek whispers, lifting his hand to pull Stiles to him but he pauses and asks, “Is this all right? Do you need space now?” Stiles quickly realizes what he is asking and scoots closer to him. Derek wraps him in his arms and holds him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead and soothing away his tears with soft words and gentle caresses.

Derek waits until long after Stiles’s breathing has evened out before allowing himself to relax into unconsciousness.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Stiles wakes to the warmth of Derek’s arms around him, and the beating of his heart beneath his ear. Stiles shifts, opening his eyes as he realizes one of Derek’s thumbs is stroking along his back where his hand is resting. Exhaling sharply, he whispers, “Good morning, wife,” greeting him in English.

Unable to resist smiling, Stiles returns the greeting in French and switches to Latin to ask, “Did I wake you? How early is it?”

“The sun is up and myself with it. You looked so peaceful that I did not wish to disturb you.” He tightens his arms around Stiles for a moment then relaxes his grip, shifting back on the bed so he may sit supported by the pillows. Stiles follows suit, sitting beside him unsure whether he should look over at him. “I have business to see to in the village this morning, but this afternoon I thought perhaps we could go hawking. You are more familiar with the birds, and the mews are the one part of the estate I have not given proper attention since my arrival.”

“If it please your lordship I should very much like to join you,” Stiles answers, his eyes still cast down at his hands as he picks at a hangnail.

Derek places his fingers delicately below Stiles chin and tilts his head up until he is looking directly into Derek’s sage green eyes. The gentle expression in them causes his breath to catch and he glances down, glimpsing his parted lips. “It would please me even more,” he says, “If you would call me Derek when we are alone. In our marriage I am just a man like any other.” Stiles nods dumbly in response.

Withdrawing his hand Derek says, “I should be going if I am to finish by dinner. I hope to see you then.” He kicks away his coverings and dresses quickly for the day, his fingers clumsy as he pulls on his boots, almost falling over from tugging too hard at one. He blushes until he finally gets his foot in it, and then he gives an elaborate bow and a sheepish, “Good day, my lordling,” before striding from the room.

Erica comes in only moments later, followed by Lydia and Alyss, and the three ladies titter as they set about readying their lord for the day.

 

**Eleven**

 

Derek does not arrive at the manor in time for dinner, and Stiles—his nerves too highly strung over the idea of spending the entire afternoon with his husband—is not hungry. Instead, he seeks out Scott, telling him of Sir Derek’s plans to take Stiles hawking when he returns.

“Do you want me to come with you then?” Scott asks, confused over the situation in general. “Does he even know anything about birds?”

“He says he does. Tiercels, not hawks or falcons… Do you want to bring another bird to exercise it? We have enough that it wouldn’t be amiss,” Stiles babbles.

“Yes, but did you want to be alone? Or does he want to be alone with you?”

Stiles freezes. “What?”

Scott gives him a knowing look, “The chamber maids have been gossiping; they are surprised by how infrequently they must launder the bedclothes from your chambers. We all know that you had not intended to marry yet, and mother says that Lord Derek is admirable in his restraint. But people are still talking.”

“Why? It’s none of their business.”

“But it is! Failing to produce an heir could be grounds for an annulment. It’s early days yet, but the people are worried. They are invested in this union because it keeps you here and they know you to be kind and fair. So far they like the new earl, but you are important to those feelings.”

“Why would this make you think the earl wants to be alone with me?”

“Because it’s pretty clear that you’re the deciding factor in how often the bedclothes need to be laundered.” When Stiles gapes at him Scott shrugs and asks, “So, _do_ you want me to come with you?”

“Yes,” Stiles answers without missing a beat.

Just then, a servant arrives saying that Lord Derek is waiting for Stiles at the mews. He thanks him and sends him on his way. Then Stiles takes Scott’s hand and drags him along after him towards the mews, only dropping his hand and smoothing out the skirt of his kirtle when Derek comes into view. His pace slows and he adjusts his posture, head held high, as they approach him. “Greetings, wife,” Derek calls as Stiles comes into earshot.

“Good day, milord,” he returns, stopping to stand in front of him. Scott walks on ahead of them directly to the mews, preparing the birds they will take out for the afternoon. “Did your business in the village go well?” Stiles asks, his eyes flitting to and from Derek’s face.

“Quite.” He takes a step closer and takes Stiles’s gloved hand in his own. “I hope your morning was fruitful.”

“My learning progresses,” he answers in French, unable to hold in his wide grin. He follows this with a dutifully recited list of colors, game animals, and culinary dishes until Derek’s grin matches his.

“My beauteous, clever wife,” he says in English, starting to lean in when he is interrupted by the reappearance of Scott. He is carrying a peregrine, hood already in place over its head, and he hands it to Stiles. He pouts and Derek is confused. “Whatever is the matter?” he asks, still speaking English which startles Scott.

“He is upset that I won’t let him hunt with Eda today, but a merlin is not large enough to bring in any suitable game at this time of year. The peregrine will be of far more use,” Scott says as deferentially as he can manage while also wearing his usual lopsided grin.

“I understood almost all of that,” Derek says excitement brightening his voice, switching back to Latin as he addresses his husband. Stiles does a quick translation on the words Derek then asks him for and the alpha adds, “He does make a fair point.”

“I still prefer to hunt with my own bird. But Zippora will do well today.” Stiles frowns again, looking the falcon over as he readjusts his hold on the tether.

Scott nods once and returns to the mews, returning a moment later with a large hooded hawk, the gray and white of her feathers almost blending into the dreary winter day. He holds the bird out to Derek who takes her gingerly. “What is her name?” he asks.

“Hild,” Scott answers with a gentle smile before turning back once more in order to retrieve a bird for himself.

Derek’s eyes have gone wide, staring at the bird on his forearm. “Is this all right?” he asks Stiles, “I feel I overstep my bounds, taking your father’s hawk now as well.”

“She’s the best trained of all our birds and she’ll work the best for a stranger. Besides, my father would not want her to be put aside because he is gone. Hunting with Hild will be an honor to him and the training he did with her.”

“If you say so…”

“I do,” Stiles says with more conviction than he has ever said anything to Derek. He feels his heart flip in his chest as Derek stares at him with gaping mouth, like he is about to speak. Then Scott returns with Athela, their gyrfalcon, on his arm. Together, the trio makes their way to the clearing on the edge of the village, alternately sending birds up into trees and along the forest edge to flush out prey.

Finishing the day with a grouse, a couple of pigeons, and a half dozen coneys, they return to the mews. Scott restores the birds to their perches and rewards them for their good service. He then brings out Eda so Stiles may fly her and give the merlin a chance to stretch her wings. As Stiles and Derek watch Eda fly, Sir Isaac approaches. He greets them and asks Derek when he intends to resume his training with the knights, “Or as lord of the manor are you too far above we lowly knights now?”

“I planned to return to the training yards tomorrow, Isaac,” Derek says with the shake of his head and a gentle grin.

“Good, I was afraid you were ready to grow fat and slow,” Isaac says, flashing his friend a teasing smile.

Derek does not return the ribbing as he asks, “Was there anything else you needed, or will that be all?”

Isaac snaps to attention, his face going blank. “No, milord, nothing else.” He bows and watches as Derek escorts Stiles back to the manor. When he turns he finds Scott staring along with him. “Fuck,” he hisses under his breath. Scott returns the sentiment even though they do not share a language.

 

**Twelve**

 

Evenings of asking questions and giving answers make Stiles and Derek less of strangers. Mostly they talk about their likes and dislikes, the people they spend time with, and the tasks they must carry out daily. Sometimes they talk about their pasts, but those larger questions are harder to broach, beyond Derek’s occasional query about the former earl and Stiles’s question about how Derek came to be a knight in Duke William’s service, they have learned little of the people they were before they met.

Tonight, Stiles gathers the courage to ask one such question that has been burning inside him since their wedding night. “Feel free not to answer,” he starts, as he always does when he fears asking something too personal, “But you said I reminded you of your younger sister… Why? You said some, but it just… I want to understand more.”

Derek freezes against him, the thumb that was stroking the back of his hand going still. He stands then and goes to the fireplace, leaning heavily against the mantel. Sucking in a shaky breath Derek turns to face him, forcing a tight smile onto his face. “Even knowing so little about you, I knew that the people here loved you. Cora was like that, always charming everyone who knew her. She was shy, but you could not help but love her.

“I couldn’t save her… By the time she was old enough to walk she was constantly following me around. I hated it since she made it hard for me to train with my swords-master, or really do anything that ten year old boys want to do. But I loved her, and I failed her.” Turning his back to Stiles again, he slumps against the chamber wall, shoulders shaking.

Hurrying to his side, Stiles places his hand flat against Derek’s back and whispers, “You saved yourself. Throwing your life away in a show of bravery would not have done anybody any good. And because you lived you were able to save Isaac.” Derek turns in to his touch, and Stiles wraps his arms around him, a hand stroking his hair. “You helped me give my father a Christian burial. You’ve returned my future to me, Derek.” He presses a kiss to his temple, tears in his eyes. Derek clings to him like a child in need of his mother.

They stand together, their breathing slow and shaky. Eventually, Derek relaxes his hold and straightens to his full height, Stiles’s arms still around his neck. “We can stop for tonight,” Stiles says in nearly flawless French, “If you want to stop. We can stop asking questions.”

“No, it helped. I think—thank you. I needed that.” Derek strokes a finger along the edge of his face. “I am lucky to have found you.”

Stiles mirrors his action, his finger tracing the outer edge of Derek’s cheek and down to his chin where he takes hold and guides his face down to his, initiating their first proper kiss since the one that sealed their marriage. It is little more than a chaste touching of lips, but Stiles feels as though he will combust. The warmth coursing through him runs all the way down to his toes. Almost too soon the kiss ends as he leans back just enough to separate their mouths. “What was that for?” Derek asks, his warm breath ghosting over Stiles’s face.

“I am lucky, too,” Stiles answers with a grin. “And I wanted to do it.” He swoops in to plant another kiss on Derek’s mouth, just a quick peck in comparison to the previous one. “I wanted to do that as well.” Leaning in once more, their lips meet and Derek immediately takes control, hand going to his cheek, mouth opening against his, his tongue sweeping along Stiles’s lower lip. Startled, he parts his lips and Derek’s tongue slips inside his mouth. The sensation is unexpected but pleasurable and Stiles leans into the kiss. Derek pulls back and Stiles whispers dazedly, “That was good too,” which triggers a spate of laughter from them both.

Placing a quick kiss on top of his head, Derek takes a step back and puts space between them once more. “Maybe it is time for good memories,” he says after clearing his throat. “Tell me about Scott, how you became friends.”

“We’ve always been friends,” Stiles says with a shrug. “His mother was my nurse, and when my mother died Mella did her best to make sure I did not feel I was missing anything. Scott was always around. He was the child I had the most access to growing up and he’s the closest that I have to a brother. I think if he had wanted to become a knight my father would have sponsored him, but he’s never been much of one for fighting.”

“Not all men can be fighters, nor should they be,” Derek says. “And from what I see, Scott is well suited to his position and loyal to you, which is all I ask of him.”

“You do not even care about his loyalty to you? To your title?”

“Loyalty to the title means he could turn on me, and loyalty to me would be false. I’ve done little to earn his loyalty. But to know that should I be away or incapacitated you will be protected by someone so fiercely loyal… It makes my heart glad.” He looks to the window where the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. “It is late, we should retire.”

Stiles excuses himself, going to his dressing room on the right where Erica waits to ready him for bed which she does with the utmost efficiency. Erica leaves through the servants’ door and Stiles returns to the bedchamber to find Derek standing again before the fire. Hesitating in the doorway he watches the muscles of Derek’s back shift beneath his robe. Stiles holds his breath, willing his husband to turn around and face him, but he keeps his back to him, completely unaware of his presence.

Padding softly over to their large bed, Stiles seats herself on the edge and waits. When Derek finally turns and spots him he startles, clutching at his chest. He rubs at his eyes and chuckles. “Sometimes I wonder if my men are right, that you are a sorceress who bewitched me into marrying you… You are so extraordinary, Stiles, that I should know better than to be surprised.”

Stiles draws his legs up to his chest, brow furrowed. “Your men think I bewitched you? I was terrified that day, why would I have wanted you to marry me then?” He can barely hold back the hurt in his voice, attempting instead to cover it with his indignation.

Rushing to his side Derek drops to his knees before him and murmurs his apologies, “No, I am sorry, I was not thinking. Forgive me for saying something so unkind. Be assured all who made such insinuations were suitably reprimanded. They did not see the advantage in our alliance and said I must have been swayed through other means. Clearly they did not see your beauty.”

“And so it is my pretty face that has bewitched you,” Stiles snaps. The value of his appearance means little when it can so easily fade. A politically advantageous marriage made more sense to him than one based upon Derek’s lust for him. Even lewd comments about the draw of an omega on their alpha lord would not have irritated him so.

Head bowed, Derek whispers, “I have impugned your honor and I beg your forgiveness, noble lordling. All offenses are the result of my own coarseness. Let me make amends however you see fit.” He glances up into Stiles’s eyes when he finishes, hoping to see the barest hint of mercy from him before averting his gaze again.

Stiles places a hand on the crown of his head. “Tell me you did not marry me for my beauty,” he says.

“I have told you before that I married you because it would consolidate my claim to the earldom, and that the deference of the people made you an asset to me as a wife, but I also admired your spirit. The fire inside you burns so brightly and that helped to make up my mind.” Derek takes Stiles’s hand from his head and presses dozens of quick kisses to it—across the back and over the palm, at the base of each finger and against each knuckle. “I was drawn to you because of who you are, not because of some enchantment. But how else I am to explain it in words? I have more words than I know what to do with, and yet none of them sufficiently conveys what I feel for you.”

“You say such pretty things,” Stiles says, his eyes glistening in the lowlight cast by the fire and the candles in the room, “How am I to trust what you say when it all seems too lovely to be true?”

“I am a terrible liar,” Derek says with a smirk.

“Good.” Stiles guides him to his feet, pulling his face to his and kissing him soundly.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

The next morning Stiles wakes to the unfamiliar sensation of Derek’s arousal pressing into his thigh. He shifts, trying to move away but instead pushes back. This draws a low hum from Derek as he tightens his arms around Stiles’s waist. “Sweet Christ,” Stiles whispers to himself. Reaching down, he pries Derek’s arms away from him and wriggles away, waking him in the process.

A string of expletives leave Derek’s mouth, muttered low, before he groans and says, “I’ll go. Apologies, lordling, it has a mind of its own.” He moves to exit the bed, but Stiles catches his shoulder.

“You don’t need to hide from me, Derek. I am still your wife.”

“But I don’t want this to be an obligation. Trust me; I have been taking care of my urges on my own for long enough and I will not push you into a situation for which you are not ready.” He glances to the window and adds, “Besides, I should be getting down to the training yard or Isaac will chide me for growing lazy.” He flashes Stiles a weak smile and swings his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up, ready to pull back the bedclothes when again Stiles stops him.

“Maybe I do not see it as only an obligation any longer,” he says, hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Maybe I am sick of gossip about our unsoiled sheets. Maybe I want you to kiss me right now.”

At this Derek half turns so he can put a hand to his cheek and press his lips to Stiles’s, his stubble tickling the skin above his lip. When he pulls away he looks at Stiles with lust-filled, dark eyes and strokes over his cheek with his thumb. “While I would very much like to take you up on your offer and to believe that you are ready for such a thing, I really must go. If you still want to talk about it tonight, we will.”

Stiles nods, his mind already set on the idea of touching him so intimately, and leans in to take Derek’s lips with his own once more before his husband leaves to train with his men.

 

**Thirteen**

 

“Milord, are you all right? You’ve been distracted all morning,” Isaac says, having the opportunity for the first time that day. All the other knights have been paired up for sparring and Derek has defaulted to his preferred partner and former squire. Isaac easily blocks the attack Derek makes, their dulled practice blades ringing with muted clangs.

“I’m fine, Isaac, my mind simply has more to occupy it now. You would be distracted too if you were planning for the impending planting season.” Silence falls over them as they trade off attacking and blocking, ending with a particularly skillful parry from Isaac that disarms Derek.

Isaac gives him a look and says, “This is what I mean. Even at your most distracted I should never have been able to do that.”

“And yet you did,” Derek snaps. He composes himself, drawing in a handful of deep breaths, and adds, “Did you even consider that maybe it has to do with the fact that you have been in charge of drilling the men since we arrived and I have only minimally kept up any level of training since taking on the duties of earl? You’re just improving your skills.”

“And I think there’s something you aren’t telling me.” The two men glare at each other, never breaking eye contact even as Derek bends down to retrieve his sword.

“I have the right to keep things from thee if I wish, Isaac. I am thy lord and master, and our friendship does not change that.” The words fall cold and sharp from Derek’s mouth as he sheathes his sword. He softens, adding, “If it were truly something thou needest to worry about I would tell thee.”

“But I am your friend, Derek,” Isaac implores, “And I want to help you, even if that only means listening. If you don’t want advice I won’t give it, but something is clearly bothering you.”

Derek shakes his head and calls out an order for the men to take a break. He leads Isaac to a more private corner of the yard and whispers, “Do not speak of this to anyone, understood?”

“Of course.”

“I think I’ve fallen in love with my wife.”

“Is that not a good thing? That should make your marriage far more enjoyable at the very least… Unless he still hates you over what happened to his father, but—”

Derek interrupts, “I don’t think he hates me.” He pauses, looking out over his sparring knights. “It seems I frustrate him sometimes, but he is kind hearted and I have tried my best to do right by him… He… He kissed me last night.”

“A lover’s kiss?”

“It became one.” Derek blushes, unable to hide his grin.

“Then what are you worrying about? This sounds like good news to me. Very good news at that.” He slaps Derek on the back, holding back a chuckle.

“I do not wish to push him too far too fast. He is so young still… I said I would wait until he was ready, but how can I know he’s really ready and not just feeling obligated? I want him to be happy.”

“Derek, I say this as your friend: you think too much and you need to relax. Sometimes saying ‘fuck it’ is the best the option and maybe this is the time for that. If you worry over this too much it will tear you apart.” He pauses a moment to let his words sink in then adds, “Maybe you should just trust your omega. He seems to know his own mind fairly well; if he wants you, let him have you.”

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

The morning passes much as it always does for Stiles: language lessons with his ladies-in-waiting while they embroider and sew, idle chatter interrupting them every so often. After that they go to have dinner together. Stiles begs Erica to distract Lydia and Alyss (who now speaks enough English to their French for all of the ladies to talk together) so he can leave the manor unfollowed.

Running for the mews, he quickly tracks down Scott and grabs his hand, pulling him after him. “I need to speak with thee,” he whispers, finally coming to a stop behind the stables.

“Whatever is the matter, Stiles? Are you unwell?” Scott asks, concern written on his every feature.

“I am perfectly sound of body, but my mind… I do not understand men.” He holds his head high and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Men are not so difficult as all that,” Scott says, trying his best to sound obliging, “You and I certainly understand each other well enough.

“That’s because you are my Scott. You’ve never played games or tried to talk me in circles.”

“I know being an omega is difficult, that it sets you apart from nearly everyone you know, but while Sir Derek is an alpha, he is also a man. A child of God as we all are. I am certain you understand him far better than anyone else here.”

 “The earl is not so easily understood, and even though he clearly does not see me as a child he continues to treat me as one!” His face flushes hot with indignation.

Concern crosses Scotts face. “Has he disrespected you? I would do anything to protect you, Stiles, absolutely anything. You know that.”

“I do know, and for that you have my love.” Stiles turns from him, looking out over the broad field where they hawked just a day prior. “If anything he respects me too much. I cannot convince him that he need not protect my delicate sensibilities. I agreed to be wife to him, and I know what that entails. He has been kind not to force himself upon me, but what if he does not even want me? How do I make him touch me?”

“Shouldn’t you be talking about this with Erica, or the bossy Norman one… Lyddie?” Scott asks, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

“Lydia,” Stiles answers, “And no, that would just fuel the gossip among the servants even further.”

“And this won’t?” Scott turns Stiles to face him, holding him about the upper arm. “Stiles there are all ready plenty of rumors about us—that I am in love with you, that we are having an affair, that there was a secret marriage contract drawn up between us before your father went to fight the Normans. The list goes on, and we both know none of it is true, but what if Lord Derek hears any of it?”

“Who would he hear it from? The servants would not dare spread idle gossip in his lordship’s presence and who amongst the villagers would speak it?” He pauses, gazing at his feet in order to avoid Scott’s eyes, “Besides, even if my father had been willing to let us marry I would not have married you, Scott. You are too much a brother to me.”

“From thy lips to the ears of God, the very idea of it makes my skin crawl,” Scott says, making a face at Stiles, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Stiles slaps his arm. “Am I that horrid a prospect?” he asks with a laugh.

“Yes,” Scott replies with a grin. He stills, turning serious. “Mayhap, you simply must seduce your husband; dangle yourself before him as you dangle a marrow bone before a hungry dog. It is not as though he cannot perform, because we all saw the proof of the consummation. And I have seen the way he looks at you: The earl is clearly infatuated with you. But I am more worried with how you feel for him.”

Stiles blushes and ducks his head again. “I like him… I like him very much. He is handsome and good, noble in bearing and in his heart. Sometimes he speaks foolishness, like his tongue is not controlled by his mind, but I have never heard him be intentionally unkind.” Sighing, he moves to nestle against Scott’s side. “I dream about him sometimes, and those dreams are good.”

“Well, I am certain that if you want him, you will get him soon enough.” He slips an arm around Stiles’s shoulders, and together they walk back to the manor house.

 

**Fourteen**

 

Having dined with his knights and skipped his nightly questioning session with Stiles, Derek returns to their chambers late. There he finds Stiles laid out on the bed, head resting on his hands, shift rucked up around his thighs. Derek startles and stammers, “What are you doing?” as he rushes to close the chamber door behind him.

“Waiting for you,” Stiles says in a light, no-nonsense tone as he raises himself up on his forearms. “Why are you so late in coming to me?” His bottom lip protrudes ever so slightly as he looks up at Derek through his eyelashes.

“I could not leave before now. The men have seen so little of me that I felt it prudent to stay, maintain morale.” He chokes on the first handful of words, finally finding his voice halfway through speaking as he steps closer to the bed.

Stiles sits back on his heels, shirt sliding down to his knees which maintains his modesty. “You are here now, and that is all that matters.” He smiles demurely at him and inclines his head as Derek continues to advance towards him, stopping when his thighs hit the edge of the bed. Rising onto his knees and bringing his face in line with Derek’s, Stiles places a hand over his husband’s heart and whispers, “My thoughts have been filled with thee all day,” as he leans in to press a kiss to his lips.

Derek balks, his mind thrown by the entire situation, going still at the sudden kiss. Stiles pulls back, a look of confusion on his face. “Dost thou not want me?” he whispers, the playfulness wrung from his voice. “After last night, I thought—”

“I very much want thee,” Derek rushes to assure him, his veins feeling as though they are on fire as he panics. He places a quick kiss against Stiles’s lips and leans their foreheads together. “What if I hurt thee?” he murmurs.

“Do not worry so,” Stiles whispers, leaning in to kiss him again, pecking over to his cheek and nipping along his jaw. His nimble fingers help to strip Derek down to his small clothes. Derek himself shimmies out of his linen undershirt, leaving his torso bare before his omega for the first time.

Stiles’s eyes dart across his chest, taking in the already developing bruises from this morning’s training, at the scars he has accumulated over the years. His fingers trace over a long, white line raised along Derek’s shoulder and his breath catches in his throat. “Where didst thou come by this?” he asks, his voice filled with awed reverence.

“Training accident. Or perhaps not so much of an accident, the other squire did not like me overmuch and he struck with the edge when he could have used the flat of the blade. I had to learn to fight with my left arm then, which ended up becoming an asset.”

Stiles nods solemnly before darting his fingers over to a small, red pucker raised against Derek’s flank. “And this one?”

“Arrow wound; the head did not penetrate too deep, but it hit a weak spot in my armor. Otherwise it would not have pierced my flesh at all.” Derek takes Stiles’s hands in his and whispers, “My body is written over in the violence I have witnessed and done in this life. I pray thou canst forgive my transgressions, for thy absolution would be sweeter than that of any priest.”

“Blasphemer,” Stiles says in mock horror, darting forward to seal his mouth against Derek’s. “Thy life has brought thee to me, so I cannot be but happy in thy doings.” He places a hand over his alpha’s heart and whispers, “Come to bed, husband.”

Derek happily obliges, following Stiles under the bedclothes and pleasuring him with his fingers as he plunders his lips. In what feels like no time at all Stiles goes rigid, a moan coming from low in his throat as his release covers Derek’s hand.  Body limp after being so expertly plucked, Stiles nuzzles into Derek’s chest, settling into the cradle of his arms.

“Can I not return the favor?” he mumbles lazily, his eyes already drifting shut as he mouths wet kisses against Derek’s collar.

“There will be time enough for that. Rest now, sweetling.”

 

**Fifteen**

 

Even as all of Christendom abstains from the pleasures of good food, fasting in memory of the suffering of Christ in the desert, Derek and Stiles spend Lent indulging in the pleasures of the flesh. They resist at first, only for Stiles to convince Derek that the virtue of bringing a child into this world will far outweigh the sin of giving into their desires.

Still, there is to be no violence during the Lenten festival and Derek’s knights all chafe under the lack of means to release their pent up energy. As such they are put to work tending horses and fishing in the nearby streams. They still grumble, but the chambermaids are much happier at no longer constantly being pursued by lustful young fighters with no fighting to do.

Isaac, as the Norman knight most skilled in English now and with the greatest experience with animals, is made assistant to Scott, which at first annoys them both but quickly turns to easy amity. Even after the ban on violence ends with the season the two can often be found quaffing and joking together.

At the manor, along with all the regular preparations for the Easter feast, the lord and lordling work side-by-side to plan the tournament that will follow soon after. Invitations are sent to their vassals and to those in the surrounding shires. Animals are fatted and other luxuries sent for from the capital and the continent. All stands in readiness.

 

**Sixteen**

 

The day of the tournament dawns bright and clear, and Derek is restless. Under any other circumstances he would be competing, but as lord of the manor he must preside over the day’s activities and hope his men perform well enough to bring honor to his name. All this waiting, the lack of control, it leaves his stomach in tighter knots than if he were about to enter a duel to the death.

“Milord?”

Derek knows without looking that Isaac stands in his doorway, but he glances over his shoulder anyway to confirm, the real Isaac matching perfectly against the image of him that Derek holds in his mind, down to the way he leans his arm against the jamb. “Yes, Sir Isaac?”

“The festivities are set to begin as soon as yourself and Lord Stiles are ready.”

“And where do you fall in the day for the joust?”

“Fourth bout, milord, against one of the Argent men.”

Derek stands and claps Isaac on the shoulder. “May your aim be true.”

“Thank you, Derek, I shall do my best to do you proud.” He gives a small bow and takes a step back.

“You may tell them to prepare for my arrival. Stiles and I will be down in a moment.”

“Yes, milord,” Isaac says, standing at attention before giving a final bow. The formality makes Derek’s skin itch, but he knows that such deference is required now of his position. Derek does not watch Isaac leave, turning instead to his wife’s chambers and collecting him along with his ladies.

There is much cheering when Lord Anglia and his fair Omega are announced, and Derek leads Stiles over to the raised dais from which they will observe the jousting and the melee; their attention will move to the rear field for the archery competition among the yeomen.

Derek pays little attention to the first two bouts, both fought between knights he does not know and has never seen before. Both end quickly with little mess. The third features Sir Daniel, one of his English knights; he defends well, letting his opponent tire before finishing the fight handily. He sends a salute to his lord and master and Derek inclines his head in recognition.

Tittering from the ladies at Stiles’s side draws Derek’s attention, and he whispers to his wife, “Art thou enjoying thyself?”

“Very much, milord,” he whispers back, his fingers squeezing Derek’s hand where they are still connected, not having let go since entering the tournament arena.

“How long was Sir Daniel in thy father’s service?”

“He was a third son sent here by his father for training when he was ten. He knew he could better earn a living under my father than by returning home and he stood little chance of inheriting, so he stayed with us. Why?” Stiles gives him an appraising look, his eyes darting away when Derek returns his gaze.

“It is good to know all I can about my strongest fighters. He’s always done well in practice bouts and clearly he stands to perform well today.”

“Indeed, milord.” Lord and lordling turn their attention back to the field, where Isaac is preparing for the tilt. The Argent man likewise lowers his visor, holding his lance perpendicular to the ground as he moves his horse into position.

Signal given, both knights charge forward, but before they can meet Isaac’s horse spooks and rears up, throwing her unsuspecting rider from the saddle. A gasp ripples through the crowd and Derek jumps to his feet before he can stop himself. The horse whinnies and turns, racing back to the safe end of the lists, and rather fortunately not treading upon her master as she does. Isaac’s squire gather’s the horse’s reins, doing his best to calm her.

Derek sinks back to his seat but shifts his weight forward. He is ready to call the match before any further harm can come to his best fighter, but he does not wish to do so prematurely. Isaac may still be able to fight and taking the choice from him will greatly strain their friendship. But Isaac does not move, his face completely obscured by his helm, his tabard covered with dirt and muck.

His opponent dismounts, crosses the fence that divides the lists, and approaches the fallen knight with caution. Raising his visor he crouches beside Isaac’s prone body, and taps at the armor covering his chest, his mouth clearly moving but speaking too softly for those on the dais to hear. Then, he turns over his shoulder and calls for the physician. In turn, Derek rises to his feet and declares the forfeiture in favor of Argent’s man.

Master Deaton is summoned to the field, trailed after by Scott, who assists in removing the knight’s helm and holding his head still and out of the dirt and mud. By then, Isaac has regained consciousness, and blinks his eyes blearily, expressing confusion as to how he came to be lying on the ground. Scott helps him away from the field, Isaac moving mostly under his own power, following Deaton for further attention. Derek takes it as a good sign and calls for an investigation into why Isaac’s horse startled so violently before they proceed to the next bout.

Finding no reason for the horse to have spooked the next match begins. Derek’s fingers are still laced between Stiles’s. He mumbles something, hand resting high on his abdomen, and Derek leans closer and asks, “What was that, my darling?”

Stiles’s voice is small, and he closes his eyes against the glare of the sun and perhaps something more. “What if he had broken his neck? What if it had happened to another rider?” He pauses, the unspoken, ‘What if it had happened to thee?’ left hanging in the air between them. “It is unbearable.”

Not sure how to respond, having no words to soothe his nerves, Derek raises Stiles’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it.

Their hands stay linked the whole of the joust, even as Derek declares the winner, a brash knight from one of their barons’ households, narrowly defeating Sir Daniel, whom Derek makes note to reward at a later time. The midday sun is high overhead, and the company breaks to eat, a feast prepared for the visiting knights and nobles while bountiful food is provided for the yeomen and peasantry in attendance. Stiles only picks at his food, not having felt well the past several days and Derek has a number of his favorite dishes put aside in case he finds himself with an appetite later in the day.

After dinner they return to the dais where the tents and seating have been switched around to view the lower field where the archery competition is being held. Dozens of yeomen and a few knights have already begun lining up with their longbows. The field of competitors quickly narrows to only a handful of archers including Scott, who loses in the final round as he purposefully undercompensates for the wind, allowing a fourteen-year-old from the village to take the top prize. As the boy, Robin the Miller’s son, steps forward to receive his winnings his legs shake and he bows to his lords. Stiles steps forward, removing his hand from his husband’s for the first time all day, and hands the boy a purse containing one hundred and twenty silver pennies—more money than he could conceivably earn in a season.

“Thank you, your lordship,” Robin breathes, looking upon him with awe, and reminding Stiles that he is barely any older than this boy. He blushes, averting his gaze as he mumbles something inaudible, prompting Stiles to lean down and ask him to speak up. “Begging your pardon, but may I ask a favor?”

Stiles smiles down on him and nods, saying, “Ask what thou wilt, young archer.”

He digs a toe into the dirt, his arms held tight against his sides before saying, “This is already quite a boon, your lordship, don’t get me wrong, but what I needs is work. I’m a fair shot you see, but I’ll do anything for an honest wage.” His voice is so quiet, Stiles doubts anyone else can hear him speak, which he appreciates.

He glances over where Scott stands off to the side, still waiting to claim his own prize as the runner-up and Stiles summons him forward. “Yes, milord?” Scott says as he reaches the dais.

“Would you be willing to take on another assistant to your duties, at least for the next season, master game warden?” Stiles asks, using the voice that Scott knows means he wants his words to sound like a question when really they are not.

Scott smiles and nods, knowing the boy has been a burden on his older brother who took over the running of the mill when their father died three winters previous. “I can find him work to do, milord.”

Stiles then hands Scott his own prize of thirty pennies, and dismisses them both without further ado, returning to his spot beside Derek. The Earl smiles and whispers, “Thou art too kindhearted,” as he laces their fingers back together.

A break is called again as the melee is prepared for and Sir Isaac emerges, assuring his lord that he is well enough to fight. Derek does not attempt to stop him, nodding his consent as servants rush to rearrange the field and dais again.

Soon enough the fight begins, the two initial teams of knights evenly mixed between Norman and English so as to avoid old prejudices. The melee is harsh and without any explicit rules beyond avoiding killing blows; it is little more than a small battlefield with less death and quite possibly more shouting. Much to the surprise and delight of Derek and the Anglian people Sir Isaac comes out victorious, winning them the greatest honor of the day.

The crowds cheer his name as Derek presents him with his prize, and the young Lady Lydia cheers loudest of all.

 

**Seventeen**

 

Less than a fortnight after the tournament, Stiles is in his chamber with his ladies, embroidering a silk handkerchief, when he feels a sudden pain low in his belly followed by wetness on his thighs. He panics, jumping to his feet and pulling at the skirt of his kirtle until he sees the dark outline of blood on the vibrant fabric. “No,” he murmurs, “Oh, no no nononononono. This cannot be.”

“What is it, milord,” Lydia asks, going to her master’s side, but it is Alyss who understands and runs from the room, going to fetch the old nurse. Realization dawns on Erica next, who puts her hand in Stiles’s and tells him to squeeze against the pain, helping to turn his focus, even as the blood trickles down Stiles’s legs.

They all know that Stiles has not had his monthly bleeding since before Easter, but all refrained from saying anything in case of just such an occurrence. Alyss returns with Mella who whispers, “Oh, my poor, sweetling,” as she takes Stiles in her arms. She orders a bath drawn, strips her former charge of his bloodied clothing, and eases him in to the warm water. “Try to relax my sweet, it will be over soon. It is common enough and not your fault. Sometimes the babe just cannot hold on, and this early on it is difficult to say as to why.” Mella strokes Stiles’s hair and has Erica brew a tea of tansy and pennyroyal that will help his body to empty itself.

After the bath, Stiles has his monthlies rags set in place—layered extra thick against the clot-filled blood—and is dressed for bed, Mella tucking him in snuggly. “Shall I send for his lordship?” Lydia asks, turning to Mella as the figure of authority rather than her lord.

“No, please,” Stiles says through a moan, “Please do not tell the earl.”

Mella shushes him, placing a hand to his warm forehead, “Rest milord, you must rest.” She leaves Erica to watch over Stiles, taking the other ladies out of the chamber and into the corridor, whispering that Lord Anglia should be told that his wife is not feeling well and that the rest can wait. Stiles is in no immediate danger; he will survive, but any inner turmoil or unbalancing of his humors could take his health beyond their capabilities to treat. Then Mella goes to get more herbs for Stiles’s tea, leaving the Norman ladies to their task.

“I’ll go and tell his lordship,” Lydia says, nervous but feeling it her place to step forward.

“No,” Alyss says with the shake of her head, “I’ll go. If you come with news he will be more worried because his lordship never sends you around with messages, only me and Erica.”

“That isn’t fair!”

“We all know you are the most high-ranking of the three of us and that Stiles always has a better use for you than as messenger. It is nothing against you, but the earl will be suspicious of you delivering such a message.” Alyss takes Lydia’s hand in a gesture of placation. “Stay here; make sure no one discovers his lordship’s condition. It would not do well to have the servants gossiping about this,” she adds in a whisper.

Lydia nods and goes to ensure that the bath water will be disposed of discreetly and that no servants see Stiles’s stained clothing. Alyss turns on her heel, marching off in search of Lord Anglia, her mind racing over what she will actually say to the man. She remembers the pain of her mother’s many miscarriages, the horrible moments after her father, tear stains on his cheeks, told a six-year-old Alyss that she would not be a big sister. Then the time a year later when she was with her mother as the bleeding began; her nurse had ushered her out of the room, but not quickly enough to shield her from the crying and screaming.

She asks a servant if the earl is nearby and he points her towards the kitchens, saying he is meeting with the cook. When she walks into the kitchens, Alyss does not see the earl or the cook, but she can hear their voices and follows them to the larder. Inside, surrounded by curing meats and bags of grain, the cook speaks animatedly about her needs and Derek nods along, agreeing to her requests, before noticing Alyss standing in the doorway.

“Did you need something, Lady Alyss?” he asks, concern twisting his features, automatically assuming she has been sent by his wife.

Smiling and doing her best to deflect his worries Alyss answers, “It is not urgent, milord, I can tell it when you are finished here.”

He nods. “Then I’ll meet you outside the kitchens in a few moments.” The dismissal is firm and Alyss hurries away, waiting in the corridor, her hands clasped behind her back.

When the earl emerges from the kitchens he is just as harried, slumping for a moment against a wall before asking, “What is it, Lady Alyss?”

“I was sent to inform your lordship that Lord Stiles is unwell,” Alyss says with a curtsey, keeping her gaze on the ground.

He perks up then, back straight, head tall, as he moves into her space. “Would this have anything to do with how his lordship has been feeling these past few weeks?” he asks, referring to Stiles’s poor appetite and turned stomach since the day of the tournament.

“Yes, milord, it does.”

“Has the midwife been summoned then? Is this a confirmation of his condition?” He catches her eye then, hope in his tentative smile. “Tell me true, is he with child?”

Alyss swallows hard and whispers, “He was.”

“Was?”

“He is losing the babe. The bleeding began today.”

Derek covers his face with his hands, breathing audibly. When he finally looks back to Alyss he asks, “And Stiles? He will be all right after? He is in no danger?”

“No milord. He is afraid and in pain, but he will be fine in time.”

“I should go to him.”

“No, give him time to rest. Go about your business as normal. Refrain from giving anyone a reason to suspect that something has happened. It will only hurt him further if people begin whispering about him losing his first child.”

Turning his face into a neutral mask, Derek dismisses her with the wave of his hand and goes to meet with his secretary. Alyss returns to the lord’s chambers, finding Stiles asleep, his fist clenched tightly around Erica’s hand.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Derek busies himself with his many tasks for the day in order to keep his mind free of worry. Most important amongst these tasks being his meeting with a mason to have the walls around the village replaced with heavy stone, and contingent upon a job well done to similarly rebuild the manor. The man has good references and comes with two sons old enough to aid in the building, so Derek has Scott help to set the mason and his family up in the village. Such work should have fallen to a steward if he had one, but the old earl had been without one at the time of his death and Derek has yet to find anyone suitable and trustworthy enough for the job. He would grant the position to Scott in a moment were he not so much more useful outside of the manor, while Isaac would chafe under what he saw as a stuffy position. He would make Lady Lydia stewardess if it were not so unfair to take her from Stiles’s service.

But his duties are finally finished for the day and he may return his attentions where they most want to be and where he has not allowed them to drift: to his husband. He enters their chambers finding Stiles in bed, Lydia at his side, and Erica pulling apart an old shift to turn into bandages. Alyss and Mella’s hushed tones drift in from the lordling’s chamber, low enough that Derek cannot make out what they say, and soon enough Mella enters with a steaming mug in her hands, Alyss trailing behind her.

None of the women notice him until he takes another step into the room, his foot falling on a warped floorboard, the squeak of it drawing their attention. Once again, he finds himself face-to-face with Lady Alyss as Mella wakes Stiles and gives him the mug, urging him to drain it of its contents. “How does he fare?” Derek asks softly.

“He is tired, but otherwise fine. The bleeding may last several days yet, but his pain has subsided,” Alyss says, lowering her voice even more as she adds, “He does not know that you know.”

“Understood.” Derek crosses to the bed, sitting down across from Lydia and Mella, dismissing the ladies from the room and waiting until they have all scurried to Stiles’s dressing chamber before saying, “My dear one,” as he brushes a gentle hand along his forehead. He pulls Stiles close, tucking him against the crook of his neck.

And with that the dam bursts and Stiles weeps, mumbling near incoherently, soft exclamations of, “They told you,” and, “I’m so sorry.” To which Derek murmurs gentle reassurances that he loves him and is not upset.

Stroking his hair and kissing his temple Derek whispers, “I am sorry that you must suffer this, my love, but we must have faith. God has his own purpose and we cannot try to understand it… I am sorry, and it is not fair. I had not even dared to hope that it might be the case, and it looks like it was right not to.” He keeps Stiles cradled against his chest and lets him cry until all his tears run dry. His shoulders stop shaking, but he keeps his hands fisted in Derek’s shirt. “Is there anything you need? Tell me what I can do to help.”

But his breathing has slowed. Stiles curls in on himself and he moans, a soft, keening sound that finally triggers Derek’s own tears. He holds his wife until he is certain Stiles is asleep, and then lays him down on a pillow, tucking the blankets tight around his shoulders and going to speak with Mella as to Stiles’s condition. She assures him that his wife will suffer no lasting physical effects and explains that miscarriages this early are fairly common, especially in one as young as Stiles. “Mostly,” she adds, “Stiles will need time to grieve.”

Derek thanks her and dismisses the ladies fully then, asking only that Erica spends the night in the side chamber in case anything goes wrong. The women curtsey, and Derek leaves to dress for bed, slipping between the covers and spooning up behind Stiles, his hand resting over his belly.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Waking in the middle of the night, Stiles ducks out of Derek’s grip and sneaks from the bed. He kneels at the foot of the bed where he begins to pray, his hands with their ragged hangnails pressed tightly together. Over and over he asks for strength from the holy virgin and begs her forgiveness his sins. In nothing but his nightshirt the cold of the chamber quickly sinks into his bones and his body is wracked with uncontrollable shivering.

As the first fingers of dawn light are coloring the sky Derek wakes, panicking when he realizes that Stiles is not beside him. Struggling, his feet tangling in the bedclothes, he fights his way out of the bed, eyes wide with fear until he spots Stiles kneeling on the cold floor and rushes to his side. “Darling, thy skin is icy to the touch. Please, come back to bed,” he whispers as he runs his hands over Stiles pale arms, working to rub warmth back into them.

“No,” he asserts with a shake of his head, “I cannot. I must pray so this pain may be taken from my heart.”

Derek kisses Stiles’s forehead before placing a chaste kiss on his lips. “Please. Come back to bed. I love thee, and it hurts my heart to see thee suffer so.” He leans their heads together. “Come back to bed.” Stiles’s hands come up to Derek’s neck, his chilled fingers making him flinch, if only a little.

Slowly Stiles stands, and Derek follows suit, trailing behind as he climbs under the covers. Slotting his body behind him, Derek whispers, “I love thee,” once more and presses a kiss behind Stiles’s ear. He does not respond, but still Derek waits until long after he knows his wife is asleep to allow his eyes to drift shut.

 

**Eighteen**

 

Three days later Stiles’s bleeding has finally stopped, but he remains confined to his chambers. He spends the day sewing and staring out the window that looks over the courtyard, surprised when a messenger comes charging up to the manor door. Straining to hear the exchange when a servant answers he can only make out “urgent” and “for his lordship” before the messenger is paid and sent on his way.

He must have too much attention directed outside of the room because Lydia asks, “Is something the matter, milord?”

Flustered, Stiles turns from the window and returns his focus to the kirtle he is embroidering to replace the ruined one. “No, nothing.”

“Then what has so captured your interest?” she continues, wheedling without sounding like she is in that way only Lydia can achieve.

Stiles grins. “It’s just such a lovely day. I thought maybe I would go out for a walk.”

“That’s a marvelous idea, milord,” Alyss says, never raising her eyes from her own needlework. “Would you like to go now? Or shall we wait until after dinner?”

“It can wait.” Stiles can contain his curiosity until after noon, as the sun is already high in the sky. He jiggles his knee as he pulls the green embroidery thread through the thin fabric, trying to wear down his nervous energy. But before he can make another full stitch there is a knock at the door. “Enter,” Stiles calls.

A serving boy opens the door, bowing awkwardly as he does. “Milord, his lordship requests your presence in the great hall immediately,” he announces, the light catching in his straw-colored hair as he glances around the room.

“Tell his lordship I will be down shortly,” Stiles says with a nod as he puts aside his embroidery. The boy bows again before leaving the room, moving so fast that he fails to properly catch the latch of the door and it swings the smallest bit back open. Erica giggles as she puts away her own work, and Stiles, followed by his three ladies, makes his way down to meet his husband.

Derek stands in front of the head table at the far end of the hall, a length of parchment in his hand. “My lord, well met,” he calls in greeting when Stiles enters, followed by greetings for each of the ladies behind. “I have just received word from my sister,” he says as Stiles reaches him. “She and her husband have decided that it is time for a visit. It sounds as though she has not waited for a reply, and will be here any day.” He holds the letter out for his perusal and Stiles takes it with a shaking hand.

The letter is short, containing little beyond a simple greeting and the proclamation that Lord and Lady Vauclain would be arriving shortly after the receipt of the letter and that they planned to bring the eldest of their children. Nowhere does the letter mention Stiles, nor is there a date. Looking up Stiles asks, “So your sister is coming… with her family… Does she know? About me, that is?”  Derek’s only family is coming and Stiles is terrified of being a surprise to her in-laws. What will they think of Derek’s marrying an English lordling too young and uncultured to know much of anything?

“Of course she knows about you,” Derek says with a smile as he takes Stiles’s hands in his. “I wrote Laura not long after I arrived here and again just before the tournament to tell her I was looking forward to seeing her at the king’s court this summer. I told you that you would get to meet her then.” Stiles remembers the conversation as he had explained that all the nobles still living in Normandy would be expected to pay their respects to their king in England. Lydia’s lessons in court etiquette had become more rigorous then as well and Stiles practically made himself sick with worry over making a mistake in the presence of the king. “But I guess waiting until the summer is not good enough for Laura, and I’m sure the title only has a little bit to do with it. The Vauclain Barony is small—smaller than my father’s was—but they get by fine and most leave them alone which seems to be what Brienne prefers.”

Catching himself, Derek rushes to add, “Apologies, milord, I have been rambling. Either way you shall see soon enough for yourself. For all we know they could arrive today.”

Stiles squares his shoulders and holds his head high. “Then I guess I shall have to ready the manor for such an occurrence.” Taking a step back he returns the letter to Derek.

“I leave it in your capable hands,” he says with a half bow and a flourish. Once more Derek acknowledges the ladies, and then excuses himself to meet with the stonemason and his laborers to ensure that their work will not impede traffic into the courtyard.

“All right,” Stiles says as he pushes a stray hair back into place, “We have much to do.”

 

**Nineteen**

 

The manor is just prepared enough for the arrival of family that evening, with guest beds newly made up and instructions to the cook to remain ready to add enough to feed ten to any of her meals. But no sign of the Vauclains greets them that night. Nor the next day as Stiles sends serving girls to pick wildflowers and leave bouquets around the manor to help with the smell of summer, the stink of so many sweaty bodies and the decay of manure and rotted leaves from the previous autumn. The flowers do little to mask the odor, but it gives the manor a charming appearance and the effort will be appreciated at the very least, or so Stiles hopes. By the following morning, Stiles has started to give up believing that Derek’s family will arrive at all before they themselves leave for William’s court. But the worry over meeting them still sits in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you think they will like me?” he asks Lydia as his lady-in-waiting prepares him for the day.

“How could they not when his lordship cares so deeply for you,” Lydia answers, brushing through his hair to keep it shiny and soft.

“Either way, you will not have to wait much longer to find out,” Erica calls from the window. “It appears they have finally arrived.” Stiles pulls away from Lydia’s deft hands and rushes to the window to see for himself and indeed a small company has come into the courtyard on horseback, a loaded cart with them. Derek’s knights are still at their daily practice in the adjoining yard around the side of the manor and Stiles sees Isaac come running around the building at the sound of the horses; then he hears his voice shouting orders as he watches a page boy go sprinting past him into the manor.

“I’m not ready. They cannot be here now.” Stiles can feel the panic settling over his heart and clouding his thoughts. How had he been so calm before now? His husband’s family will look at him and see that he is not good enough; they will know and then Derek will finally see his error and cast him out, it is only a matter of minutes…

“Oh, milord, it will be all right,” Erica coos as she lifts Stiles back onto his feet. Stiles cannot remember sinking to the ground, the revelation of which only serves to make his breathing more labored. “Stiles no, deep breaths now, count to ten. Come back to yourself.” Hands making quick work of Stiles’s clothes, Erica has sorted the laces and lines of the garment before her lord has finished counting.

“Go on then, milord,” Alyss says, now the one stationed at the window. “They are about to come inside and his lordship will be wanting to introduce you.”

Stiles nods stiffly and does his best to walk with purpose from the room. Descending the stairs into the entry hall his breath catches as he sees Derek walk in with a little girl in his arms. Stiles stops at the foot of the stairs as he watches the rest of the family come inside: a handsome couple follows close behind Derek, his sister’s coloring as dark as his but with dark eyes in place of his green, while her husband is fair with pale hair and clear blue eyes; the boy trailing behind them takes strongly after his father, tow-headed with a defiant gaze in his eyes as he stands on the cusp of manhood. The boy really cannot be too much younger than Stiles himself and he is unsure how to feel about his place in this family.

Catching sight of Stiles, Derek places his niece gently on the ground and beckons his wife closer even as he crosses towards him and delicately takes him hand. “What perfect timing! Now I may introduce my sweet wife, Stiles. Milord, these are my sister and her husband, the Baron and Baroness de Crocy, along with their eldest son, Charles, and this,” he leads Stiles back over, stopping before the little girl, “Is Isabelle.”

“Derek, he is absolutely lovely,” Laura says, her voice rich and dark like honey. Only then does Stiles realize that Derek has defaulted to speaking to him in English, and after the difficulty of the past weeks it has been a comfort to him, but clearly his sister-in-law thinks he does not speak French.

Isabelle has no such compunctions and runs up to Stiles and tugs at his skirts with a blush. “You’re very pretty,” she says in a voice like a bell.

Crouching beside the girl Stiles beams and says in perfect French, “Thank you, I think you are quite pretty as well.” A smile breaks across Isabelle’s face and Stiles takes her small hands in his own. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabelle.” Still holding the little girl’s hands Stiles stands, looking now to his sister-in-law, “And you as well, Baroness de Crocy.” They lock eyes and the woman steps forward, setting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

“Please, we’re family, call me Laura.” When she smiles she looks even more like Derek, and Stiles cannot help but grin bigger. Then Laura motions her husband and son forward. She pulls Charles against her side and the boy huffs in mild annoyance. The baron, Lord Brienne, takes one of Stiles’s hands and presses a kiss to the back of it, and at the same time Derek snakes an arm around his waist.

“You must be tired from your journey,” Derek says. “We can show you to your rooms and then you can relax and wash off the dust from the road before dinner.”

“Thank you, brother, that sounds wonderful.” Laura sags against her husband, still holding onto her son, but Isabelle has clearly decided that she wants to stay with Stiles as long as possible and still clings to his fingers with her little hands.

“All right then, this way,” Derek says, removing his hand from Stiles’s waist. And thus begins the tour of the manor. It is a truncated version of the one Stiles gave to Derek when he first arrived, skipping over most of the servants’ spaces. Once upstairs they leave Charles to settle into his own room, and Isabelle is to be across the hall in the room that adjoins to her parents’ chambers, but she continues on with them as she is only eight and very curious. “We shall leave you to rest then, and I will have your men bring up your things,” Derek says, giving his sister a small nod as a bow would no longer be appropriate from him.

Stiles drops into a crouch again and promises Isabelle that they will see each other again soon, but that he needs to leave her for now. As he steps into the corridor and closes the door Derek’s hands are about his waist once more. “What is this about?” Stiles asks with a quirk of his brows.

He leans close to Stiles’s ear and whispers, “I find myself entranced by thee yet again. Thou art most wonderful.” The words ghost across his skin, sending a tingle down his spine. “I love thee, my pretty wife.” Derek kisses him full on the mouth, passionate and deep for the first time in weeks. And Stiles lets him.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Dinner in the great hall is a loud and messy affair. The many knights are nearly oblivious to their guests, eating with the same fervor they devote to all their earthly pleasure on non-fasting days. At the head table, Derek catches up with his sister-in-law while Laura does her best to learn all she can about Stiles.

“My brother tells me that your father was the earl of these lands under the English King Harold. So this must be the land where you were born?”

“No, my father was only granted the earldom when I was five years old. I was born north of here, when my father was still a thegn, but then Harold was his earl. When Herold became Earl of Wessex, King Edward elevated my father at his recommendation.” Laura gives him an odd look at the use of the English word and Stiles adds, “A thegn would be about the same as a baron. Nearly all my father’s thegns have been replaced with Norman barons.”

“You did grow up here, then?”

“It’s the only home I can remember.”

“And you had no brothers or sisters?”

“None. My parents attempted, and there was a boy born before me, but he died after five days. My mother died of a fever not long after we came to the manor and my father never remarried. Circumstances as they are, it worked out for the best.” He shrugs, picking at his food and waiting for the next set of courses to be brought out to them. “I have been very fortunate.”

“Indeed, and I think Derek has been just as lucky to have you. I have not seen him care so strongly about anyone in years, but with you he has opened his heart. It is good to see him smiling once more.” Laura sets down her knife and places a hand over Stiles’s. “I have no doubt of this, but I must ask it for the situation is still a difficult one: my brother treats you well, yes?”

“He has shown me nothing but kindness.”

“And are you happy?”

Stiles takes the time to consider the question, and in the current circumstances he does not feel it. The losses of the past year have built up on themselves, one after another, his victories coated in bitterness. “I think I am, or at the very least I am as close to gladness as my heart can bear at the moment.”

“A wise answer. I find it hard to believe you are little more than half my age, but then you have seen much in your life.”

“I have.”

Laura flashes him a soft smile and returns to her food. “It is good to have you in our family. I think you may be the best decision my brother has ever made.”

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

A week later and Stiles is taking Isabelle around the manor grounds in order to give the little girl’s parents and servants a chance to relax and do other important things beyond chasing after an energetic child. Also, Stiles remembers when he and Scott were just as much trouble around the manor and he misses feeling so free.

“Can we go down to the wall? I want to see the builders,” Isabelle asks, eyes wide and lower lip jutting forward as Stiles takes her through the gardens. The fortification of the outer walls of the keep has been at the forefront of Derek’s worries ever since he put out the call for an experienced stone mason and he remains involved in construction so he will know what to expect when the family travels south for the summer. But Isabelle has never shown any interest in the masonry before now.

“I suppose we could,” Stiles says holding his hand out to his niece, which the little girl gladly takes. “But we cannot get in the way of the builders, and you have to promise me you will be careful, yes?”

Isabelle nods solemnly as she makes her promises before tugging Stiles along behind her as she is so excited at the prospect of the leaving the manor grounds.

The estate is large, and the walk to the wall a long one for such short legs, and as such they stop frequently—so Isabelle can pick wildflowers or under the pretense of Stiles stopping to chat with one of the many skilled laborers in their employ—their final rest coming when Isabelle is distracted by the smith’s furnace, watching him heat the iron bars red-hot before bending and beating them into interesting and useful shapes. Then, just as suddenly as she stopped, Isabelle starts off towards the gates. “Come along, Auntie Stiles,” she calls over her shoulder as she picks up her skirts and skips along the path. Stiles shakes his head and trots after his niece, doing his best to keep up while remaining dignified in bearing.

Stiles catches up just in time to watch Isabelle break into a run, shouting, “Uncle Derek!” and latching onto him where he is overseeing construction. Derek turns in panic, worried that the girl has made her way out to the wall alone since no one expressed plans to leave the manor that morning when he left. He relaxes as soon as he spots Stiles. Scooping his niece into his arms, Derek holds her on his hip and strides over to meet his wife, delicately smoothing a strand of hair back into place behind his ear.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, confused but clearly delighted by their sudden appearance.

“I wanted to see the wall,” Isabelle proclaims, “Will it be like our wall back home?” Crocy is ringed by a high stone wall built by the baron’s father many years earlier; it keeps thieves and raiders from coming into the village in the night, giving greater protection to its people. Stone walls are much more common on the continent than in England. “Is the wall you have now not good enough at being a wall?”

“Right now the wall is made of wood, and it is very good at being a wall, but it could be much better were it made of stone. Wood is easier to fell and to burn, so we will be safer with a new wall,” Derek answers as he lowers Isabelle to the ground, holding her fast until he is certain she has her feet firmly planted on the ground. “As long as you stay far enough back, I am sure our master mason will not mind you watching the building,” he adds with a wink. With that, Isabelle takes several cautious steps towards a pair of workers shaping a large block to perfectly fit the next open space on the wall. “She’s a curious, clever little slip of a thing, eh?” he says with a grin as he turns to face Stiles.

“Yes,” he agrees, “I’ve never seen a girl so interested in things being made. Or in walls for that matter.”

“I think she may have had other reasons for wanting to come here today.”

“No, she was absolutely enthralled by the blacksmith on the way here. And she always wants to know how things fit together. I walked in on her hunting for all the nails in the chair in her chamber the other day. An inquisitive mind will be a blessing and a curse for her,” he adds with a sigh.

“And why is that?”

“Because it is very difficult to be a girl and ask how the world works. Most husbands do not appreciate it and she has so few options for what to do with her life as it is. I cannot imagine her parents approving of her joining a convent, and that’s the only real way she could learn.”

“All valid points but there are some husbands who will indulge such passions. Know that I will always let thee learn as thou will. And while I truly believe that Isabelle has some genuine interest in the building of this wall, I think more than anything she wanted an opportunity to leave the manor. Her parents are reasonably protective, and she took her chance. That, and I am her favorite.”

“I think I may be stealing that title,” Stiles says with a sheepish grin.

“And I gladly concede it to thee. Thou art certainly my favorite so I do not see why thou shouldst not be Isabelle’s as well.” His hands have found their way to Stiles’s waist and he holds him still as he steals a kiss. Stiles’s own hands rest against Derek’s chest, rising and falling with every breath. He whispers, “If thou wouldst stay with me whilst I meet with the mason one last time, I shall escort you both back to the manor.”

“Thou art too kind,” Stiles answers.

 

**Twenty**

 

When they leave for the court that summer, Derek leaves Scott in charge of the keep with Isaac overseeing the daily needs of the household; they have instructions to work together whenever possible which has left the pair in one another’s company even more than usual. On that morning, as the nobles prepare for their journey, Stiles catches a glimpse of Scott and Isaac arguing behind the stables, their faces a shade too close. He had wanted to leave Scott with extra encouragement for his expanded role in running the estate, but the scene is uncomfortable and oddly intimate. Without a word Stiles turns and scurries back to the manor. The rush of their departure prevents him from speaking to Scott at all that day.

He prays it is not an ill omen.

Their copious baggage slows them, and a journey that would only take a day’s hard riding will cost them three, stopping overnight with another noble family the first day and at an inn the second, and each day Stiles is grateful to escape the rocking motion of the carriage and the musty, sour milk smell that hangs inside it. Each night he happily falls asleep with Derek pressed up behind him, his warmth and the scent of horses and leather that announces his status as a knight a comfort to his tired nerves.

Upon finally arriving at King William’s court, Stiles is terrified of meeting the man himself, certain that he will disapprove for some reason or other of his very presence. But the king is busy and they do not see him on the first day. Instead, the Vouclains and the Hales are shown to their chambers and given the chance to rest. Stiles’s ladies and Derek’s body servants are given rooms just off of theirs and within easy access. Lydia instantly begins to prepare the clothes Stiles will need for each day, finding ladies and omegas of the court and old friends to gossip with in order to learn about current fashions and plans.

Much to Stiles’s surprise, Derek does not go in search of his acquaintances or to check on his horse as he often does after any strenuous riding. He simply takes off his boots and lies down on the bed, hands folded over his stomach. Eyes closed he calls out, “Are you not tired, wife? The bed is soft and we are expected nowhere this day.”

“Are you certain, milord? We left far later than you originally planned. Will we not be missed?”

“Quite certain. Now come and rest, find respite in my arms. I do not wish to see anyone in the world tonight but thee.” He holds a lazy arm out, cracking his eyes open to peek at Stiles, a soft smile on his face.

Shrugging out of his travel cloak, the item almost too warm for the mild heat of early summer, Stiles gives a little hop on his way to the bed, stretching himself across the velvety spread and laying his hand on Derek’s chest. “I wish we had not had to come here,” he whispers, knowing that anyone overhearing them would be disastrous for their standing at court.

“As do I,” he returns, pulling Stiles into his embrace, “But what can we do? The king expects me to visit the court and I must. He wishes to meet my wife and he will. It is the way of things. Then, when we have bowed to his whims and sworn our fealty, we get to go home and look to our own affairs.” He strokes a hand down Stiles’s back, leaving it settled just above the swell of his arse while placing his other hand over the one Stiles has pressed over his heart. Derek’s calloused fingers are warm against his soft skin as he adds, “I’ll not let anything harm thee whilst we are here, so be not afraid.”

“I am not,” Stiles says, even though the coming days and all they will bring loom darkly before him and fill him with a sense of impending doom. His stomach turns, and for a perilous moment he fears it will force up its contents. Swallowing, eyes squeezed shut, he says, “I still do not feel well, that is all,” and pushes himself up on his side.

Derek bolts upright, panic in his eyes as he caresses Stiles’s cheek. “Shall I send for something? The King’s physicians are very good I am certain. Or I could fetch Erica?”

“No, I will be fine.” Stiles mirrors his actions and lays his fingers flat against Derek’s stubbly cheek as he places his other hand low on his abdomen. The betrayal of his body has left him sensitive and hollow inside. “It is nothing that time and rest cannot cure.” He sighs and bites his lip. Derek strokes a thumb along his cheekbone.

“Stiles…” His eyes search the depths of his wife’s, lips parted and unable to form any more words.

Stiles hushes him, a finger placed over his lips, and whispers, “Please, hold me. That is all I ask.” His arms circle around his middle, and Stiles surges forward to press his lips against his, fingers sliding into Derek’s hair. They do not let go until the next morning.

*                                              *                                              *                                              *

Standing in King William’s throne room upon the morrow Stiles wishes he could disappear. His hand is delicately perched atop Derek’s as they stand side-by-side in their finest clothes, waiting in the receiving line for the King to acknowledge them. Their rank leaves them near the front, and soon Lord Anglia and his pretty omega countess will be face to face with the King of England. William is a handsome man, his hair graying, shots of white through his facial hair, but still rather young in his looks. His queen, Mathilda sits at his side, poised but silent for the time being.

Stepping forward, Derek leads Stiles up to the thrones and bows as Stiles makes a proper curtsey, his eyes downcast. “Well met, Lord Anglia!” the King proclaims, “And this must be thy wife.” The scrutiny of his gaze crawls along Stiles’s skin, but he simply keeps his head bowed. “He is a lovely one, sir, and we approve of thy choice most heartily.”

“Thank you, your majesty. Let me present to you the Countess Anglia, Stiles.” Derek leads her forward a single step and she curtsies again and says, “Hail, King William,” in barely accented French.

William laughs, a good-natured smile on his face. “Well met, Lord Stiles!” He turns back to his favored knight, “And to think, I thought thou hadst married an English lordling.”

“My husband is an apt pupil; he speaks Latin better than I do,” Derek says.

“Marvelous! I am sorry to hurry you along, Sir Derek, but I shall speak with you at greater length at the feast,” the King says by way of dismissal.

Stiles lets out a slow breath. He has survived the first ordeal of the court.

 

**Twenty-One**

 

“Auntie Stiles, look!” Isabelle exclaims, scampering up behind the long table where their whole family is seated in the great hall. Already, this is the fifth feast King William has held since their arrival.

“What am I looking at, dear heart?” Stiles asks, pulling Isabelle up onto the bench beside him. She glances down the table to where Derek speaks animatedly with Sir Christophe Argent, Alyss’s father, before returning his attention to where Isabelle points. The great hall is so filled with entertainments that Stiles is unsure whether his niece wants him to pay attention to the fire eater or the tumbler performing before the head table.

“That man is so bendy! How does he do it?” Her little voice goes from loud excitement to gentle awe from one sentence to the next. She wraps her arms around Stiles’s neck whispering, “How?”

“I do not know. I think God simply makes some people more bendy than others. Perhaps your Mama will know.”

“I already asked her and she said to ask you…”

“Then it will have to remain a mystery for now.” Plucking a honey-sweet candied fruit from the platter to his right, Stiles passes the treat to Isabelle and bids her to stay out of trouble. The little girl plants a dry, childish kiss on Stiles’s cheek before running off in search of playmates her own age.

And as seems to constantly happen in this place filled with people Stiles is left on his own. Lydia and Alyss are busy doing what they can to make connections with Norman nobles for their young master while Erica has been working her way through the remaining English nobles and their servants. Stiles could seek out his in-laws, but he often feels as though he is monopolizing their time when he does. So he sits at the long table and watches entertainments, letting his mind be distracted by amazing feats and laudable skills. Every so often his mind will wander and his attention is taken by a lord taking the hand of a lady who is not his wife, or by a knight leading a wench into a dark corner, mischievous looks on both their faces.

In one such instance Stiles startles as he sees Erica standing much too close to a Norman knight, his hand on her waist. Erica tries to pull away, but he has a firm grip on her wrist and he leads her from the hall, down a side corridor and out of sight. Skirts tripping him as he attempts to get up from the table, Stiles lurches towards the corridor and barely contains himself from sprinting to catch up to Erica and the knight. He has stopped them just beyond the light from the torches on the walls, shadows covering their faces.

Taking delicate steps, forceful enough to make noise but slow enough that his haste is not detected, Stiles calls out to his lady-in-waiting and Erica answers, relief streaked through her reply. “It has grown colder than I expected, I need you to fetch my shawl, the green one, from my chambers,” he orders, keeping his voice as light and even as possible.

Erica mumbles, “Right away, lordling,” and breaks free of the knight’s hold, bobbling a quick curtsy before rushing back down the corridor.

Intending to turn back himself Stiles keeps his eyes on the knight, afraid to step out of the pool of light in which he stands. The knight advances on him and says, “Now aren’t you a pretty little bit.” His voice is gravelly and he barks a hoarse laugh as he steps into Stiles’s space.

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, ready to use his rank as a threat when another voice says, “Sir, leave this lordling alone. Perhaps you could find someone who is interested in your advances in a bawdy house but this is the court of the king.” The knight turns tail and hurries down the corridor, not wanting any witnesses to his actions. Glancing over his shoulder Stiles sees another knight, this one wearing the colors of Sussex, his hair flashing brilliantly red under the torchlight. “I am sorry, milord, I hope I have not been impertinent in my interference,” the new knight continues, his accent clearly not French.

“You have my thanks, sir,” Stiles says in English, and his eyes gleam.

“A Saxon! You must work for one of the Norman bitches then,” he replies, also in English. He takes a step closer, then another and another, which forces Stiles to take a step back as he comes too close.

“Sir, while I appreciate the help, I would—”

He cuts him off with a gentle shushing and a touch of his dry, cracked fingers to Stiles’s lips. “No need to rush off, pet,” he purrs. “We’re just a bloke and an omega getting acquainted, nothing wrong with that.” One of his hands falls to his waist while the other ghosts along his chest. “Nothing wrong with that at all.” Groping at Stiles he fumbles to pull him close and breathes hot, stale air into his face.

“Unhand me,” Stiles orders, still keeping his voice low out of fear, as he fights to push the knight away and lands a hard slap across his cheek.

“Like it rough then, lordling? Must be used to taking it rough, an omega bitch like you.” he says with a sinister grin, hand locking around Stiles’s upper arm, the pressure so strong he is certain it will bruise. Crowding him against the corridor wall, he leans in close again, lips a mere finger’s width from his face, when a voice states clear and low, “Take thy hands off my wife.”

The southern knight steps back and glares down the corridor to where Derek stands, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw. Recognition dawns on the knight’s face—Lord Anglia is well enough known amongst the entire court, just as the other earls are—and he stammers his apologies. Derek will hear none of it. “Get thee gone, sirrah, and stay away from my wife. Touch him again and I’ll take off thy hand.”

Wide-eyed, the knight nods his understanding and rushes down the corridor, putting as much space between himself and Derek as possible. As soon as he is out of sight, disappeared around a corner, Derek goes straight to Stiles, careful not to come too close, and asks, “Are you hurt?”

Stiles shakes his head in answer and steps closer, burying his face against the front of Derek’s tunic, hands fisting in the thick fabric. He does not cry, but he vibrates, his muscles shaking. Rage bubbles below the surface, and he holds his breath and counts, waiting until his anger subsides. Derek’s arms come up to hold him, his grip loose. The dark thoughts fade as he breathes in the comforting musk of his lord. Finally calmed he leans back and whispers, “How did you know to come find me?”

“Erica came to fetch me. I thought you had sent her; she looked quite distressed.”

“I was trying to save her,” Stiles mutters, “not trade places.”

Looking into his eyes Derek says, “Let us retire. We can return to our chambers and no one shall miss us. It is already plenty late and…” He trails off as Stiles shakes his head. “Do you wish to return to the great hall? We can if that is your will.” He nods before resting his head on Derek’s chest. “Then that is what we shall do.”

Derek waits until Stiles has recovered himself enough to begin making his way back to the great hall on his own, but he stays close at his side. He does not remove his hand from the small of Stiles’s back even as they return to their table. There, Alyss is talking with her father, while Lydia protectively hovers around Erica. As soon as she lays eyes on Stiles, Erica’s eyes light up and she rushes to his side. “Give us a moment,” Stiles says to Derek who returns a curt nod and steps to the side. He takes Erica’s hands in his own and whispers, “I thank thee for thinking to fetch my husband. I forgot completely that not everyone knows who I am here.”

“You were not hurt, milord?” Erica asks, terror sharp in her eyes.

“No, praise be to God,” here Erica crosses herself, “But I cannot wait until we can leave this place.” Swallowing hard he continues, “Tell me this was the first time a knight compromised thee in such a way, Erica? Or anyone. Has this happened before?”

“No, milord, until tonight there was some flirting and teasing, a few crude words, but nothing like this.”

“Let me know if there is any more trouble, for thee or any of the ladies.”

“Yes, milord.”

“And if anyone asks tonight, I am unwell and that is why his lordship and I have retired early.”

Erica nods but says before her lord can turn from her, “Stiles, are you certain you are all right?”

“Yes, I am still fairly capable of looking after myself. And my husband is very intimidating when he wants to be.” He grins, but it does not reach his eyes. Shoulders sagging, he rubs at the corners of his eyes and says, “We shall discuss this further tomorrow. Be safe.” Erica nods her assent and Stiles crosses to stand at Derek’s side where he is bent over and whispering in his sister’s ear.

He straightens at Stiles’s touch, bidding Laura good night before leading his wife from the room. No one stops them or asks questions, seeing nothing beyond a lord and his omega returning to their chambers; the conclusions of the onlookers are not difficult to draw.

Stiles makes it as far as the foot of the bed before his legs give out and he shakes as he curls in on himself. Derek turns the lock in the door before rushing to his side and kneeling at his feet. “Stiles, tell me what I may do. I fear thy accostment was worse than I saw. Hast thou been hurt?” He reaches out to take his hand but stops himself short, afraid of intruding too far into his own space.

Breaching the divide Stiles takes Derek’s hand and shakes his head. “Nothing beyond my pride… I am just so _angry_ it happened at all. I should not have to worry over my ladies being assaulted by knights or fat barons with wandering hands. That knight came after me because he did not recognize my rank and I deserve better protection than merely being thine.” His hands shake in Derek’s and tears of frustration escape his eyes. He wipes them away and locks eyes with Derek, lips pursed. “Teach me to fight.”

“What?”

“I want to be able to defend myself, so teach me how. I want to be able to fight for myself.”

The defiance in his eyes stirs the fire in Derek’s chest and he smiles. “As you wish, my sweetling.” He rises to his feet and Stiles follows, footing still uneasy enough that he must grab his husband’s sleeve to keep upright. Derek steadies him, his hands stable on Stiles’s waist as he says, “There will be time enough for training in the morning. Right now you need rest.”

“No, let’s start now. Please, it will put my mind at ease.”

“Fine, something simple,” he says, resigning himself on this battle because it is impossible for him to win. He shows Stiles how to use an attacker’s weight against them, ways to break free of holds, and the most effective places to hit when he does not have a weapon. After walking through the motions of one escape he lets Stiles practice, doing his best to fall safely against the stone floor but certain he will have new bruises in the morning. Looking up at Stiles from the floor, the glow of the fire backlighting him in warm yellow-gold, he marvels at the events that brought them to this. Stiles offers him his hand and Derek takes it, tugging him down on top of him before he can start pulling him up.

First he glares at him for the impertinence, and then Stiles smiles, his hand coming up to rest against his cheek. Propping himself up on his elbows, Derek plants a kiss on the tip of Stiles’s nose. “I have missed thee,” he whispers.

Stiles draws back, shocked. “What do you mean? We have not been apart.” His weight still rests heavily on Derek’s torso.

“I promised I would not force thee into anything, but after all that has happened… It is difficult to be so close and still feel so far away.”

“I am not a child to be coddled, Derek; just say what you mean instead of talking in circles.” Stiles pulls back further and Derek follows him, sitting up on the floor, holding his wife in his lap.

“We have not been intimate since before you lost the baby. I understand that you need time to heal—Mella told me that your body would need time—and the pain in your heart must still be great; I will respect that as long as you wish. But I feel like you are pulling away from me, like you are still afraid.” The words come out colder than he intends at first. Stiles gapes, and once again tears fill his eyes. Panic constricts Derek’s heart. “Oh Christ, no, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”

Leaning forward, Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, kissing him hard, his tears making the whole thing too wet and a sight saltier than proper, but he returns the kiss heartily. Their lips do not break apart until Stiles is out of breath, his tears already drying on his face. “Thou art good and kind, and I love thee beyond bearing. How then can I not be afraid? I am constantly afraid thou wilt realize thy mistake in marrying me. What happens to me then? What happens if I cannot give thee an heir?” He drops his gaze, his voice dropping so it is nearly inaudible, “What happens when you stop loving me?”

“I could not if I tried with all my heart,” Derek whispers back, lifting Stiles’s chin so he can see his face. “I love thee, and have resigned myself to loving thee until my last breath. I will not abandon thee for all the world. And if I have to spend the rest of my life proving that to thee, then I am lucky, for I know thou lovest me.” Releasing his chin Derek puts a hand on Stiles’s thigh and leaves it. “Please, refrain from distancing thyself so fiercely from now on. As I said, I have missed thee.”

Stiles rests his head against Derek’s chest, listening for a moment to his heartbeat. “I’ve missed thee as well, and I do want thee. I swear I do. But I am not ready. I can’t, not here in this place, surrounded by all these strangers. Wait a little longer, until we return home,” he murmurs. “It’s the best I can give.”

“And I accept it gladly.” He presses a fond kiss to Stiles’s forehead. “Now, let us get up from the cold ground. It grows late and I would welcome sleep.”

Using Derek’s shoulders as leverage, Stiles clambers up from his place in his lap and goes to pull the brooches and chains from about his person, leaving them on his dressing table. Derek hops to his feet and struggles out of his high boots, losing his balance and landing half on the foot of the bed where he stops to watch Stiles undo his laces. Slipping out of his tunic and hose are easy enough after that, and Derek goes to stand behind Stiles in nothing but his smalls. His fingers stray grip low on the kirtle the hangs well below Stiles’s knees, bunching the fabric into his fist. Stiles turns to face him, eyes wide and lips parted. “I meant it when I said I was not ready,” he says, voice calm and clear, his hand coming up to rest on Derek’s bare chest as if on its own.

“Which I respect, but it does not mean that I do not wish to be close to thee. May I?” Stiles nods over his shoulder, Derek’s own hand naturally settling on his waist as he releases the fabric. Stiles swallows and gives silent assent, helping Derek to free him of the heavy fabric that hangs loose from his body. Stiles shivers as his body cools, standing only in his short shift. “Come to bed, my lord,” Derek whispers hot against Stiles’s ear as he presses up against his body.

He follows without question.

 

**Twenty-Two**

 

Stiles is beaming. “You truly are ready to leave,” Laura says with a laugh.

“I just want to get back home.” He checks that all his things are packed one last time, even as he knows that Erica has not missed anything. Lydia even has a list with each item ticked. “Aren’t you ready to return to Crocy? You must miss the rest of your children.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I will be happy to see them and to sleep in my own bed. That I have truly missed.” She catches Isabelle as she runs into the room squealing. “What is it, my sweet?”

“Papa says it is time to go!” She bounces on her heels, a trace of jam on the corner of her mouth. Laura wipes at it with her thumb and Isabelle struggles away from her mother’s grasp. Darting over to Stiles she wraps her little arms around her uncle’s waist. “I will miss you so very much, Auntie Stiles!” she wails.

Bending down and embracing the girl Stiles says, “I will miss you as well, Isabelle. And I’m sure we will see each other again soon enough.” He taps Isabelle on the tip of her nose. “Now run along with your mama, you don’t want to keep Papa and Charles waiting.” Isabelle shakes her head in earnest, eyes wide, and takes a step back from Stiles, giving him a proper curtsey before going to take her mother’s hand and pull her out of the room.

They cross paths with Derek as they leave the chambers, where the siblings exchange quick farewells and Derek scoops Isabelle into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead before sending them on their way. “Shall we be going soon as well?” Stiles asks, going to his husband’s side.

“The servants should be here for the trunks within the hour. We leave as soon as the wagon is loaded.” He takes Stiles’s hand in his and kisses the back of it. “We shall be home by Thursday afternoon.”

“Those are the most beauteous words ever spoken.”

“What about all the times I have told thee that I love thee?” Derek asks with a pout.

“Those are good, but to be going home… I am tired of performing for the court.” He does not add that he cannot wait for the sour emptiness in the pit of his stomach to dissipate as well. Stiles turns to face his husband, looking up into his eyes before snuggling against his chest. “I want to be alone with thee and actually feel like we are alone.”

“We will be, soon enough.” He puts a protective arm around him, as the servants arrive to retrieve their belongings.

 

**Twenty-Three**

 

Their arrival in the village is greeted with cheering and a crush of people excited for the return of the lord of the manor. Among them is the stone mason, happy to report that only the final quarter of the wall remains to be replaced. At the back of the crowd Derek spots Scott, smiling as he always is, his arms crossed over his chest. Dismounting, Derek passes through the crowd to meet him.

“Greetings, Lord Anglia,” Scott says, giving a small bow.

“And to thee, Master Warden. How has the village fared in my absence?”

“Sir Isaac and I have prepared a report for your perusal, on both the village and the manor house, milord.”

“Fantastic! I am certain we have much to discuss.” Clapping him on the back, he continues on foot back to the manor, Scott in tow.

            *                                  *                                              *                                  *

Following a thorough briefing of harvests and expected harvests, local disputes, expenses, and law breaking Derek announces his decision to name Scott as the shire reeve and Isaac as master of arms. Scott worries more about young Robin’s abilities to take over the duties of game warden, while Isaac asks how being granted such a title will change his current responsibilities. In truth, it is a mere formality at this point, but Derek wishes to slowly ease him into the position of Steward, at least until someone more interested in the role but equally trustworthy can be found.

Derek excuses himself then, leaving the somewhat unlikely friends to internalize their new statuses—most likely with drinking—and retires to his chambers. He walks in to find Stiles lying across the bed, already dressed for sleep. “I expected thee here well over an hour ago,” he says, voice muddled by the hand supporting his chin. “I was very close to falling asleep.”

“I am here now,” he answers, locking the door behind him and pulling at his laces, loosening everything and nearly forgetting to remove his boots. For the first time in their marriage he strips completely naked, standing before Stiles in the light of day. And he stares, perusing Derek’s well-muscled form with an unhurried calm he would not have thought himself capable of only a few months prior.

Derek takes a step closer to the bed, but Stiles holds up a hand for him to stop, instead slipping from the bed and to his feet, and letting his shift fall from his shoulders to pool on the floor around him. Another first, and Derek is equally ready to stare. His eyes wander over Stiles’s body, paying special attention to the rosy peaks of his nipples and the fleshy roundness of his arse. Stiles takes a step towards him, and he quickly closes the space between them, Derek’s mouth catching his as his hands pull him close, pressing their bodies together.

Stiles’s heart pounds in his chest, beating a harsh tattoo against Derek’s, Stiles’s fingers digging into his back. “Need thee… now,” he whispers between kisses.

Maneuvering him onto the bed, he follows, covering Stiles with his body, still kissing and every so often moving down to nip at his neck or jaw. One of his hands is thoroughly occupied with kneading the small firmness of Stiles’s right breast.

Stiles’s fingers come up, fumbling along his face and pushing Derek back. “Hurry up,” Stiles orders breathily.

“I like when thou art so hot for me in thy need, sweetling,” he returns, “But we have not coupled in so long that we must go slowly.”

“Then touch me. I want to feel thee.” He half moans the words as his own hands slide down Derek’s torso, fingers stroking over the trail of hair that leads to his groin.

Derek kisses him again before sliding down his body and saying, “I am thine to command,” as he moves his fingers between his legs, bringing Stiles to his first climax as he works him open. “Was that to thy satisfaction?” Derek asks with a sly smile and a wink. Stiles practically purrs in response, his hand sliding into his husband’s hair and holding his head against his hip even as he continues to clench around Derek’s fingers. Then Stiles guides his head up to his, kissing his mouth as his own free hand helps Derek to work his cock to full hardness.

Minutes later Derek comes inside him. Stiles keeps his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist as the knot ties them together. As his arms begin to shake, Derek rolls them over so Stiles is on top, allowing them both to go boneless without crushing him with his weight. “I love thee,” Derek whispers into his hair.

“So it was worth the wait?” Stiles asks and he can hear the smile in his voice.

“Always. I would wait forever for thee.”

 

**After - 1071**

 

Derek wakes to the sun on his face, and he reaches out blindly for his wife only to find himself alone in bed. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes he dresses quickly and hurries downstairs, worried that he has overslept for his day is to be a busy one. Still, his hunger gets the better of him and he goes first to the smaller dining room the family uses for informal meals, and finds Stiles already eating.

“Good morrow to thee, my love,” he greets, going immediately to kiss his cheek.

“And to thee, husband.” Stiles gestures for him to sit, and he does, keeping his focus on his husband rather than the food.

“Shouldst thou not be in bed? Thy time is so near and after—”

He is cut off by Mella’s arrival, entering with a dark-haired toddler following at her heels. “There is nothing to worry about your lordship. There are no signs of the complications that arose during the last pregnancy. Being able to move about will help keep his legs strong, and he needs those legs to keep up with this one.” She stoops to heft the child into her arms, and kisses her cheek. “Isn’t that right, little lady?”

“You cannot blame me for worrying.,” Derek says in earnest. “I nearly lost them both then, and I will do all I can to prevent such a thing happening again. And I do not wish Claudie to grow up without a mother.” He rises to his feet as he speaks, his tone gentle even as he stares the nurse down.

“Trust me, milord, I have seen more than enough babies born, and the midwife agrees: his lordship will be perfectly fine. There are still two months before his time. His body will let him know if he is pushing himself too hard.

“I pray you are right,” Derek says, watching as Mella sets Claudie down and turns to catch his daughter as she runs towards him on wobbly legs. Mella leaves with a smile on her face, not wishing to intrude on the little family’s time together. Derek holds his daughter close before sitting again beside Stiles. “Oh, Claudie, my lovely, wilt thou be a good girl for thy mama today?” he asks, smiling as she presses a chubby hand to his bearded cheek.

“Yes, Papa,” she answers with a solemn nod before breaking into a gap-toothed grin.

“My Claudie is always a good girl for mama,” Stiles says, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. He rubs a hand over Derek’s shoulder and asks, “Thou art meeting with Scott this morning, yes? He caught a boy poaching?”

“Yes,” Derek says with a sigh, “I hope we may pardon him without setting a precedent. But he’s only eleven, at most, and I don’t want to hang a lad younger than Isabelle.”

“Then don’t. Hold the lad another night in the jail and then send him off with a warning. If nothing else you will be able to give him a few more meals.” Stiles returns his attention to eating, still keeping his hand against his husband’s arm.

Leaning over Claudie’s head, Derek presses a kiss to Stiles’s cheek and says, “Truly, thou art a marvel. How did I get so lucky as to marry thee, my love?”

“Thou wert a kind-hearted fool who did not know any better. And I thank thee for it.” Slowly he laces his fingers with those of Derek’s free hand.

Giving his hand the slightest squeeze Derek murmurs against his ear, “And I shall gladly be thy fool to the end of my days.”

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly all of my references to real historical figures and events are as accurate I could make them, even when putting them into an AU in which human genetic diversity evolved in a very different way. I know I am bending time a great deal to include the entire hodge-podge of medieval scenes I wanted.
> 
> For those interested since I never elaborated, a tiercel is simply the male of any raptor species used in falconry. Females are bigger by a bout a third, and therefore more highly prized as hunting birds.
> 
> I also admit to being inspired to do this AU by this episode of [Supersizers Eat ](https://youtu.be/L0IoRp5v5zs)
> 
> If you want to find me on tumblr, [prickingofmythumbs.tumblr.com ](http://prickingofmythumbs.tumblr.com/)


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